Letter to My Young Poet Self

Dear me,
The tiny poet
Who admired Fernando Pessoa’s
Thousand personas.
Dripping from his feathered brain,
He build a million worlds
In which all of our futures could unfold.

Later me,
And a tiny poet still
Intrigued by Césario Verde’s dualities
Of green and grey,
City walls and country rolled in hay.
Urban life could do little to engulf
The flowers, the trees and the lovely bluff.

Youngling adult,
A poet that grows.
Walt Whitman wandering
A lone supermarket.
Outside, nature blooms
And rugged coasts erode.
Everything changes in the wild,
Even poets occasionally blend in, though ever so mild.

Rough young adult,
Poet in edges crashing.
A Charles Bukowski lost in a liquor store,
Drunk as never before.
All world is women he knows not how to respect,
All world is body he destroys with a shot in a glass.
What changes seem unbearable,
Are the result of not changing at all.

So much poetry, so little life yet,
Oh tiny poet!
Arise from the schadenfreude with Rainer Maria Rilke,
Travel across your loved continent and bring T. S. Eliot in your pocket,
Or venture further into the dark with Edgar Allan Poe.
And don’t dare forget the dear music that spills forth from your beating heart,
And love and despair as Leonard Cohen did,
Or as all poets do indeed.

Taste the journey,
And let its flavor and scent color your writings.
Try not to get to lost from what you love,
But if you do, try to find poetry.
So many things appear true
And so little actually are…
For a poet’s heart, little’s enough.
Just don’t give up searching.
And don’t give up writing.

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