I start each day being placid and serene,
By sitting in my half-cocked easy chair
With eyes half closed and mind both calm and keen
While waiting for a subject to declare
Itself as promising for poetry—
Some item from the news or past event
Still vibrant and alive in memory
Perhaps aroused by a delightful scent
(As was the case with Proust), or by a note
I’ve scribbled in the night while still in bed
Or by some mastermind’s provoking quote
Or by an article I’ve lately read,
And nearly always something comes to mind.
No masterpiece, but something of this kind.