In the blue hour

Only if you must

Practice art, but only if you must,
wrote Rilke to the young. Could you bear
a silent life? Of all, this matters most.

Answer yes or no, neither dismissed.
You don't have to write? Some grief you'll spare
yourself. Don't change your life unless you must.

Or, don't even answer. Shelter in mist,
hesitating, holding the heavy air
around your formless heart, gathering most

comforts and distractions, till amassed
children, career, an overkill of cares.
Then practice no art, for you must

not risk regretting the writing you missed.
I hid from Rilke, but squinting in the mirror,
glimpsed myself under the splatter, most

unmodified. No longer young. Half-mast.
The present is a fulcrum. Former years,
I didn't practice art, but now I must.
Of the latter I will make the most.

Bypass Clause

Practice art, but only if you must,
wrote Rilke to the young. Could you bear
a silent life? Of all, this matters most.

What compels your writing? Has it thrust
its root into the depth of your desire?
Then change your life, but only if you must.

The poet offers you a bypass clause.
If you'd not die for art, escape the snare
of losing what you'd thought had mattered most:

steady fortune, reputation, trust
of bosses, spouses, friends—all cast in fire.
You shouldn't practice art unless you must,

unassured of fame, success, applause,
open to the channel of your prayer,
drowning all but what would matter most.

No longer young am I. The years have passed,
so many months and years I wouldn't dare
to place myself in text, but now I must.
Of living's matter I must make the most.

Two cups

I served my love two cups.
She covered her ears and ran away.
Seven I dropped outside her door—
she wrote me an email,
"Don't call me no more."

I wished my love a star,
broke her fingers in a wheel,
and gobbling up the tips,
I picked for her three tulips.

Now, I wait
and wait
and wait and wait and wait
for Maia's smile
for Grace's touch.
I wait for Catalina's call,
for I have given all.

July 2021