Small Is Not All

SMALL IS NOT ALL

Small is not all
A little poem remains
minor in Melody
Only the long lines can whisper
The Music of our greater dreams..

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This Simple Small Poem

THIS SIMPLE POEM (Four variants)

This simple poem
filters
through its small lines
The small light I have now
All I can write.

2)
This simple small poem
Filters through its small lines
The small life I have now
My only light.

3)
This simple small poem
Condenses
In its small lines
My life and my light
My fading in time.

4)
This simple small poem
Reflects in its small lines
The light of my life
Fading in time.

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All You Are Now Is A Small Poem

ALL YOU ARE NOW IS A SMALL POEM

All you are now is a poem-
Not a novel
Not a storyl
Not an essay-
Not even a long poem-
All you are is a small poem-
A few lines
No more.

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I Need To Believe

I NEED TO BELIEVE A SMALL POEM

I need to believe a small poem
can mean something.
I need to believe a few words
can help others
As well as myself.

I need to believe these lines here
Are a bit of morning light,
After a long restless night.

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There Have Been Many Opening Lines Tonight

THERE HAVE BEEN MANY OPENING LINES TONIGHT

There have been many opening lines tonight
But none has been followed by a convincing poem -
Why is this evening one of trying and failing?
Why can't I at least write one small poem
That seems to me worthwhile?

I am doing better now-
There is a stanza,
And perhaps these lines will be a stanza too.

I have two small awkward stanzas
When I finish this one
I will try to feel I have a poem.

Nothing I do tonight is good enough
Is it better to have a poor poem
Or none at all?

I answer by posting these lines.

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The Poem I Am Writing Now

The poem I am writing now
does not know if it will be finished
it does not even know if it will be a poem -
it is slowly appearing line by line
and making its own meaning on the page-

Is it worth anything?
will anyone care?
I don't know -

The poem I am writing now
is just these lines
and these lines like all lines
are only small words
in a vast universe
that has long lived
and will probably longer live
without them.

Why then write these words now?

The poem I am writing now is saying,
'I am here now'.

But why should this mean anything to anyone else?

The poem I have written here
is not the poem I would have posted here
It is only the poem I am finishing now
a poem without great love or belief in itself.

The poem I am writing now
is written.

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Nothing Is Being Done

NOTHING IS BEING DONE

Nothing is being done-
Time is passing-
What will be?
Will I do nothing for the rest of my life?

A small poem is being written-
Am I alive again?
Any lines even bad lines are better than none
When one can do nothing-

Am I writing a poem?
Is something being done?
Or am I simply fooling myself
And doing nothing as I have always done
And always will do?

Or have I really done something?
Is this nonetheless a small poem?
Perhaps I have written something real in my life
Perhaps

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I Walk And Wait For A Poem

I WALK AND WAIT FOR A POEM

I walk and wait for a poem
What else do I have but a poem?

The schoolchildren by the side of the road
Are helped by their father into the car.

Yeats had ‘schoolchildren’ in his poem-
But I am not Yeats.

I stop and write these lines down
A poem is not enough
A small poor poem
Is not enough.

But what else do I have but a small poor poem
And the memory of my children
The children I love so much-
When they were schoolchildren
So long long ago?

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I Wrote No Poem Today/ I Wrote No Poem Yesterday

I WROTE NO POEM TODAY/ I WROTE NO POEM YESTERDAY

I wrote no poem today-
I wrote no poem yesterday-
Will I write a poem tomorrow?
Perhaps all my lines are done-
And I must live out
The rest of my life
In silence-
God is Great
Am I a small small small voice still?

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The Only Poem Is The Poem/ At The Moment Of Its Writing

THE ONLY POEM IS THE POEM

The only poem is the poem
At the moment of its writing
The poem being lived now
The poem I am trying to make
The poem of these lines.

The only poem now is this one-
And this poem is so small and so self- reflexive
That it is not much of a poem at all.

The only poem is not much of a poem at all
This one
And me now? .

But what about everything else I have not done?

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Once Upon A Time There Were Long Poems

ONCE UPON A TIME THERE WERE LONG POEMS

Once upon a time there were long poems that told a story-
Now there are only small poems
That tell a feeling.

This is a small poem
And I am a small poet
And we are all small readers
Who are always losing the poem
By rushing on to the next thing.

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A Poem Is A Small Treasure

A POEM IS A SMALL TREASURE

A poem is a small treasure-
A blessing in a few words-
It can be a whole world
Taken in in one breath.
It is the music of music,
The light of light.
A small poem
Can be a whole world
And much happiness in it.

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A Poem May Be Very Small

A POEM MAY BE VERY SMALL

A poem may be very small
A few lines only-
It requires no specialist knowledge-
A few simple words
To strengthen the Soul
of its writer-

A most intimate confession
To the readers
it does not have.

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I Lost The Long Road

I LOST THE LONG ROAD

I lost the long road
I lost the deep meaning
I lost what I wanted to be-
I was left with a moment
With a small now
And another small now
And another small now
Like this small now- now
And this poem-
I was left with what I could give
In a moment only-
A small poem in a small now – now
But through it
I live again-
Now.

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I Hear Within Myself The Greater Lines Of Others

I HEAR WITHIN MYSELF THE GREATER LINES OF OTHERS

I hear within myself the greater lines of others-
I began to write ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud’
I thought ‘Continuous as the stars that shine and twinkle on the Milky Way’
I felt ‘When you are old and grey and full of sleep’
I thought again ‘Doth God exact day – labor light denied? ”
I felt in my soul ‘Ah love let us be true to one another For the world which lies before us like a land of dreams ‘
Inside me I heard ‘The world is filled with the grandeur of God’
Time after time I repeated ‘O cursed spite that ever I was born to set it right’-

All in me is poetry more than my own
‘Oh to be in England, now that April’s here’
'Oh wild west wind thou breath of autumn's being'
I do not know how to stop the lines -

More in me than myself is the Poetry of others
And where I begin must end a greater Beauty not my own-

Oh Poem Oh Poetry Oh Poets of the Past
Oh Light of the world greater than my own small light-
Oh singing in the wilderness a song not my own
Oh much more than I can ever be
Others’ Poetry.

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We Are All The Snow Men

WE ARE ALL THE SNOW MEN
(Homage to Wallace Stevens)

We are all the snow men
Minor would- be Poets
Listening in the distant glitter
To the poem someone else has written
Far better than us.

We are all the quiet readers
Connecting our eyes and ears with images
Finer than those
We can ourselves fantasize:
The ‘junipers shagged with ice’
And ‘the spruces rough in the distant glitter’

We are all minor makers of our own nothingness
Beside the Great Poets who find a music of the soul
We seek and strive for and never find.

We are all the lesser snow men
Out in the cold of our own small minds
Shivering to death in the unending winter
of our own frosted souls

While the great long-lines rise up in flight
And go by
Beyond ‘ambiguous undulations’
A fierce parting light
Our bare selves
strain to surmise and survive.

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My Heart Is Small

MY HEART IS SMALL

My heart is small
My mind also-
I cannot feel much
Or think much now-
I try by writing
To revive myself,
But I am small and cold
As the harsh winter rain outside.
I cannot somehow warm my soul within
Little words
Little lines
A poem of small feeling
In the deep dark of winter
On the coldest darkest night of the year.

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A Small Poem

A SMALL POEM

A small poem
A few lines
Joy in mind.

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The Poem Of The Evening

THE POEM OF THE EVENING

The poem of the evening
Is a small poem
It waits for its own words
And hears itself come slowly and surely
It knows by the time the darkness is here
It will already be real.

The poem of the evening
Is an easy and small poem
It may not mean much
But it comes so smoothly
It seems to laugh at the heat of the day
And love itself for being here.

The poem of the evening
After the long day
Is a happy poem

And it looks forward to praying the evening prayer forever.

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I Thought To Begin The Day With A Poem

I THOUGHT TO BEGIN THE DAY WITH A POEM

I thought to begin the day with a poem
But inside myself I hear only my own slow emptiness
Word by word I try to hear
And there is some small motion now
But still
A real poem
A poem of beauty
A poem of light
A poem of love
A poem that makes the dreamer long to dream-
And the lover long to love-
A poem that moves-

Well it is very very dark outside
And the world straining to give
Small rain to a dry land
Seems to say,

‘There may be a poem today
But it is not the poem you dream
Not the poem others will love
As you have loved
True poetry.’

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The Poems Written About Poetry

The poems written about Poetry
Seemed to be self- indulgent and self- serving,
The Poet worshipping what he does
And making himself Holy-

But in some other way
They were simply Explorations
Efforts at understanding the Art
And improving the Music-

They were in their own quiet way small adventures
And gifts to other would- be- poets
And lovers of intense lines-

The poems written about the poetry
Were small additions to a long history
Poems about poems-

One kind of poem
In a world
Where there is no end to more and many.

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