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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

The Problem

I am very worried writing my poems.
Ideas don’t come to me.
I am like a man gathering firewood.
I have collected everything around me,
the big stumps,
the branches,
the neat firm logs,
burned everything in sight,
until now,
when I want a fire,
there is nothing to collect.

A sprig here,
a scrap of paper there,
oh yes,
that was a poem I started
and never finished.
Some shavings from a wood carver
who moved on,
because there was nothing to carve.
Even dried grass,
all gone,
a mere handful of doubtful combustibles
to write a poem with.

My childhood was sacked,
my love affairs gave up their diaries,
my grudges and fights burned like gasoline,
too fast,
almost exploding.
And the furniture,
the outdoor lounge,
the stump I sat on,
all used,
all burned,
all ground up into words,
until now there is nothing to use
in the fire of a poem.
Only dirt and sky,
an occasional feather from a passing bird.

So I’m contemplating my clothes,
my shirt,
my trousers,
my shoes,
even my nails
for one last poem,
until the world can look down and say,
go away.
You’ve stripped everything from your life,
and left nothing to grow,
to ferment,
to light a fire for me.
The sky,
the stars,
you’ve even burned the moon!
So go learn to be quiet.
Learn to take a vacation.

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