posing

the phrase 'help me spread my words' stands out in my mind, and won't sit down. 'spread' is most naturally what happens to seeds or diseases or memes, the connotation being that survival trumps worthiness. i keep thinking how a year and some months back i resisted the idea that too many would-be poets seek publication and too few seek help in becoming better poets. i wanted to go on believing that my meandering, formal, often didactic poetic voice, bent on finding epigrammatic gems and conclusions, was worth the chase -- and didn't need to be caught and tamed.

things have changed. i've come to see that at its worst, poetry is an unhappy marriage of narcissism and solipsism; and although two 'isms' seldom bear sweet fruit, these two only bring out the worst in each. rilke was right, in his letters, advising patience and advising writing out of deep need (without which life would be less, if not nothing) and need of discovery. he was right to say that publication is derivative and later, if ever; that achieving something public can never be the goal. i half-believed him before, but wanted to avoid any sticky implications. now i believe him fully, and this despite the fact that his poetry speaks to me less now than before.

i guess it's another instance of the trend: the more seriously i take myself, the more modest my goals become.

i will never ask for help spreading my words. i won't ask for help *sharing* them either: i will earn it, if i can.