“I had been reading one of the carefully put together exercises that The New Yorker publishes constantly as high poetic art, and gradually I could feel my eyes fill up with tears, and my cheeks were wet and I was crying, quietly softly but like it was the end of the world. I had been moved by the writers words, but in another very personal way. A way that should have taught me even more than it did. Perhaps it would have saved me many more painful, scenes and conflicts. But I was crying because I realized that I could never write like that writer. Not that I had any real desire to, but I knew even if I had had the desire I could not do it. I realized that there was something in me so out, so unconnected with what this writer was and what that magazine was that what was in me that wanted to come out as poetry would never come out like that and be my poetry ... “ ~Amiri Baraka #nationalpoetrymonth
Posted on: Sat, 19 Apr 2014 12:04:24 +0000
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