The Poet Is A Thief
I wrote a poem last night and, despite it being so concise, it took me a lot of effort to complete it. Words most of the time just flow out naturally, but this time I could not find the right word I needed. It was at that point that I decided to stop writing and start reading. I was flipping through the pages of a book of poems by Marina Tsvetayeva when I stumbled on the right word. I smiled thinking about T.S. Eliot's quote: "o ne of the surest tests [of the superiority or inferiority of a poet] is the way in which a poet borrows. Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal." Maybe I am not really mature, but I will call myself a thief. I won't tell you which word I stole, but you can read the poem I stole it from! Every verse is a child of love, A destitute bastard slip, A firstling -- the winds above-- Left by the road asleep. Heart has a gulf, and a bridge, Heart has a bless, and a grief. Who is his father? A liege? Maybe a liege, or a thief. ...