Poetry

"A man's work is in danger of deteriorating when he thinks he has found the one best formula for doing things. If he thinks that, he is likely to feel that all he needs is merely to go on repeating himself. So long as a person is searching for better ways of doing his work he is fairly safe."

- Eugene O'Neill

O Rose, thou art sick! The invisible worm, That flies in the night, In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy; And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.

-William Blake “The Sick Rose”

AMONG THE MULTITUDES

I am who I am. A coincidence no less unthinkable than any other.

I could have different ancestors, after all. I could have fluttered from another nest or crawled bescaled from another tree.

Nature's wardrobe holds a fair supply of costumes: Spider, seagull, fieldmouse. each fits perfectly right off and is dutifully worn into shreds.

I didn't get a choice either, but I can't complain. I could have been someone much less separate. someone from an anthill, shoal, or buzzing swarm, an inch of landscape ruffled by the wind.

Someone much less fortunate, bred for my fur or Christmas dinner, something swimming under a square of glass.

A tree rooted to the ground as the fire draws near.

A grass blade trampled by a stampede of incomprehensible events.

A shady type whose darkness dazzled some.

What if I'd prompted only fear, Loathing, or pity?

If I'd been born in the wrong tribe with all roads closed before me?

Fate has been kind to me thus far.

I might never have been given the memory of happy moments

My yen for comparison might have been taken away.

I might have been myself minus amazement, that is, someone completely different.

--Wislawa Szymborska.