In Writing 10,000 Poems
I have decided—I must write—
Not nine, not twelve, nor eighty-two—
but Ten thousand poems, wrong or right.
ten times a thousand thoughts come true.
A mountain made of paper scraps,
Of rhymes that twist and metaphors
Of coffee stains and midnight naps,
That knock, then vanish out the door.
Some poems will be rhythmically slight,
some will stumble, some will crawl,
Like flickers born of candlelight—
And some will say near nothing at all.
A few might bloom like sudden spring,
But many more will lose their way,
and ache like birds with broken wing—
Just words with nothing left to say.
Yet still I write. I write because
somewhere past nine thousand nine,
The world is large, the self is flawed.
And a better line might just be mine.
I write them because I can, I write them plain,
I write them bad, I write them worse,
I write them soaked in sun or rain—
And still I bless each limping verse.
For poetry is not a crown,
even when you strike a glint of gold,
It’s the dirt you dig while looking down—
You keep on digging your grave till old.
So let me write my thousandfold,
For if I fail or if I fly,
Till ink runs dry, and one book gets sold—
Ten thousand times—I dared to try.
WoPoLi 
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