Poetic

I don't feel poetic.
But a poem a day is the rule.
Rules must be kept.
Only the dilettante writes when he feels like it;
The professional writes always and forever

I have sold my poetry.
So I suppose I am a professional.
I recall the venture was a loss
How ever much I gained.

I didn't feel a whore either
Considering how much I'd given away free.
For years I'd shared my poetry
In writing, on stage, whereever,
Without a thought of pay.

I was ecstatic when I was finally paid.
And now I don't feel poetic.
I've no need for money immediately
Fresh from a meal,
Fat with luxury,
Decadent really,
Enjoying the warmth of hearth and home.

It's a delicious moment.
I'd begun to read a biography
Of a man I actually know
When I remembered I had poem to write.

I'd rather read the book
Poets don't work to deadlines.
That's for journalists.
We're free spirits.
We're the contemplatives.
We're the enchanged and magical.

How very practical to make us write a poem a day
If only so we can appreciate our troll like friends
Writing for a living, producing words for papers and films.
They truly envy us.
Every once in a while they leave their lucrative ventures
To join us where genius is rarified.
A poem should have no deadline
For a poem is a lifeline.

There, that's a poem
If ever there was one
It's not because I feel poetical
But at least I'm glad it's done.




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