The Next Poem
How much
better it seems now
than when it is finally done–
the unforgettable first line,
the cunning way the stanzas run.
The rhymes
soft-spoken and suggestive
are barely audible at first,
an appetite not yet acknowledged
like the inkling of a thirst.
While gradually
the form appears
as each line is coaxed aloud–
the architecture of a room
seen from the middle of a crowd.
The music
that of common speech
but slanted so that each detail
sounds unexpected as a sharp
inserted in a simple scale.
No jumble
box of imagery
dumped glumly in the reader's lap
or elegantly packaged junk
the unsuspecting must unwrap.
But words
that could direct a friend
precisely to an unknown place,
those few unshakeable details
that no confusion can erase.
And the
real subject left unspoken
but unmistakable to those
who don't expect a jungle parrot
in the black and white of prose.
How much
better it seems now
than when it is finally written.
How hungrily one waits to feel
the bright lure seized, the old hook bitten.
from The Gods of Winter
© 1991 Dana Gioia