One of my favorite Robert Frost poems is only two lines:
We dance round in a ring and suppose,
But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.
The enigma is the Secret. The Secret is the enigma. In one’s writing life I think the Secret is faith. As the poet Yanyi notes at the end of his considerate and caring advice post,
“Someone is on their way. Practice letting them stay when they arrive.”
This is what Rumi called a “sublime generosity”. I call it reciprocity. In the end it is care. Care for someone’s writing today in some small way.
I wrote a poem that steals Yanyi’s post and translates it into a poem.
In the desert
nothing but the wind
holds forth.
You can be forgiven
for imagining in this desolation
that you have nothing to offer the world.
No talent.
No wait, not ever any talent.
Forlorn unto giving up,
it is so easy to have faith
in your own mediocrity.
It is a shield against disappointment
that erases all the waste
of your writing life.
Don’t give up yet,
Not yet, please.
What you are missing is care,
reciprocation,
that sublime generosity
that keeps you writing.
Caring
is that sublime generosity
coming toward you singing,
“I am on my way.
May I stay when I arrive?”
Here’s a musical accompaniment to the poem above:
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Poemetic (word? should be!) response
https://write.as/dogtrax/we-might-be-forgiven
Kevin