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.