Thousand

I may write another poem tomorrow,
or I may not. Maybe I will write
about you in a novel. Never can tell.

A thousand times (well, more than that)
I've sat before the white blank screen
and wished for brilliance to shine forth,
come up with something less, but always
adequate, if what I aim for is to discipline myself
and make it happen, tease the brain cells into
action, put a smile upon a reader's face or
once or twice a tear, if writing daily is a goad
to shame some other writers who feel lazy into
sitting down themselves. That isn't all I want,
though, not to be the person pushing others
to perform. I want the brilliance, too, and
I admit it freely. And now, I've tried (some
days or nights I have tried more, it's true)
a thousand times. That is enough, I think,
to earn a respite from the have-to that has
been a good, consistent teacher. The door's
not closed, but maybe I'll get comfy in
another chair, or sit there by the window
at the view, renewed, inspired to come back
as a better poet or to find another path
entirely, lined with smoother stones.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015