"To My Grandson Upon Reading His First Poem"
Beware of words.
You will never look the same at the world
around you. Words are sparks
to set off little fires if you’re lucky,
to start storms in the sky of your boyhood.
You will be forced to reduce every experience
to metaphor. Know that sometimes
even the best intentioned stanza has
a tendency to veer off by itself
into something you never planned.
Be cautious of the moon and stars
for always there will be temptation to hang
them in your poems. Do not trouble yourself
if no one understands: be prepared
to explain yourself endlessly
in couplets and quatrains.
Learn to see what only you can see.
The fir tree heavy with snow outside your window
becomes winter with just a few words.
Every season will have you rushing to write;
don’t fight it--when spring comes
you will describe the first crocus,
your first love--for every poet is a lover
and a slave to language. Words will bumble
in your brain as surely as the first bee
stings the calendula.
Prepare yourself for the fallow times
when nothing you feel will jump into verse.
Become conscious of every drop of rain,
of the way the river swells and recedes.
There will come days you will write poems
you will show to no one--for every poet
eventually betrays everyone he loves.
Become a poet and you will never
be completely happy or completely sad again.
© 2005 Teresa White
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