A Man Remembers His Buried Poems Poem by Daniel Brick

What traps me in the net of
my own words? What am I thinking
when a single word fills my brain
with its sway of meanings, its catch
of rhythms, its bite and swallow?
Why does a poem I begin with AS IF
take hold of my mind for hours,
even in my sleep? Why indeed does
ending a poem with an elipsis pause
further thought in the time remaining?

Four questions occupy my mind. Each one
settles into a comfortable cranial niche
to drift and drowse. Meanwhile I will assume
the role of a bon vivant, slipping
from topic to topic the way a master
baroque harpsichord player veers
from dance suites to opera suites or
improvises on themes of love and passion.
Like the poet, she modulates her sound
for sweetness or harshness, truth being her guide.

But now I wholly doubt myself, and wonder
whether my poems should be housed
in an archive of forgotten things.
Perhaps my best gambit is to maintain
an external silence, so the inner sounds
can be heard more clearly, despite the static
of self-talk. Within my soul I must purge
the interplay of silence and speech.
I realize the bon vivant has withdrawn,
and the new resident in my mind doffs his hat.

He is a comedian, not very deft at his trade,
perhaps with a touch of Touchstone, and
a meager portion of Feste, but he will suffice
to distract me from composing further poems.
I may yet be saved by such wise foolery
Shakespeare released from within his clowns!
And I will apply myself to sympathetic listening
for the slightest sign of what must come to pass.
Perhaps even now, this moment between here and there,
the depths are opening to welcome my New Self.