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© Paul Zarzyski. All rights reserved. These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

NEWSFLASH: (Nov. 28, 2007)

In the latest newsflash, I confessed an overdose of ars poetica poems in the manuscript I’m hoping to metamorphose into a solid book during the coming year.  I mentioned how I’m usually drawn to the ars poetica focuses as springboards out of long dry spells—admitted having to pry myself away from the topic while struggling recently for that first poem a 7-month bardicless incarceration.  We’re posting an early draft of the piece I referenced—note the slight stumble, though the image just might work, in lines 12-15.

[HOW I TELL MY DAD I LOVE HIM]

It involves more than just a bit of courage for me to let this poem out of the house, in light of how rusty I’m feeling.  Perhaps I’m in desperate need of a gesture that attempts to howl out to the farthest reaches of the Musical Universe, I BELIEVE!  I STILL BELIEVE WE CAN MAKE THE MAGIC HAPPEN ON THE PAGE!  In the same breath, I whisper the sensibility, and humility, of W. H. Auden, who said:

In the eyes of others, a man is a poet if he has written one good poem. In his own, he is only a poet at the moment when he is making his last revision to a new poem.  The moment before, he was still only a potential poet; the moment after, he is a man who has ceased to write poetry—perhaps forever.