“when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.
there is no other way.
and there never was.”
If I took good old Bukowski seriously…I may never write a poem. So I have decided not to take him seriously. But I have to admit, ‘So You Want To Be A Writer’ is a super super poem…
Read on at your own risk…
Of late, I have been thinking about ‘death’, while for most the word may form a distasteful, not-to-be-discussed subject – to me it has taken on a kind of a…presence…a real physical presence. Before you judge me weird, let me give you some Rumi:
A stone, I died. I rose again, a plant.
A plant, I died and rose again an animal.
An animal I died and was born a man.
Why should I fear? What have I lost by death?