I had this sudden vision of my own work today as a pile of sentimental, cliched crap. It was horrible and I can't quite shake it. I try hard not to judge my own work or myself. Try to leave the critical analysis to others. But sometimes, especially after a long period without getting anything published, I just can't help myself. I know intellectually that my job is just to write the poems that show up to be written. To stay true to my ear and my aesthetic. But, damn, sometimes the slog feels like a slog.
The Complete Unknown
I frequently have mixed feelings
And am divided against myself
Half in love with easeful death
While standing on the beach in Eleuthera
There is no lifeguard and no rope
To stop me from swimming out too far
The water is almost invisible
The slope as gradual as the everlasting
Like a lifetime of minor betrayals
There is no algorithm to describe
A world resplendent with uncertainty
No big data computation to say
How the water dissolves the razor sharp shadows
Or the fluttering wings of a southern ray
Keith Dunlap
Sunday Puzzle
Just the word, Sunday, in the title
Makes me think of her and how she loved
Wallace Stevens, at least his poetry
And of her sister, the forty-year-old Buddhist
Who read “Sunday Morning” at her memorial service
And how Philip and I wept into each other’s arms
Each of us conscious of how each of us fell short
Of her love. What it was for Philip I couldn’t say
But for me it was that day when sick from chemotherapy
She confessed that her dying wish was for us to go away
Together and have sex before she was too frail
And I promised her we would knowing full well
That it would never come to pass and then she asked
What I thought happened after death
And I got all tongue-tied and gave
Some lame pseudo-philosophical reply
When all she wanted me to do was deceive her
When I told the truth and be truthful when I lied
Keith Dunlap