it's just just a thought experiment--don't worry, it's not really the last poem i intend to ever write. was just mulling over the relationship between discontent and creativity, and thinking "if i was ever totally and completely satisfied in my life, would i have anything left to write about? would i have any desire to write?"
it's a funny balancing act--the quest for happiness and peace is in some ways in direct conflict with the desire to say something important, to have something important to say. great art, as they say, is the hallmark of a soul in turmoil or a civilization in turmoil.
a worthwhile question: if complete happiness would lead you to stop expressing yourself artistically, would you choose art or happiness?
and another: do you have to choose? can you be an artist and also be completely happy?
is a perfect day.
everything is
just fine.
i accept the rain as
simply rain;
the sun
just shines.
my world is a bell,
unstruck
by sorrow
or longing.
this is the last poem
i will ever write;
this is the last song
i will ever sing.
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