A old friend of mine wrote recently that his biggest fear was that when he died his wife would sell all his guitars for what her told her he had paid for them.
The same concerns could be applied to poems. One's own writing, for all its qualms and second-guessing of subject and technique 'at orgin', has value. The issue isn't disputed, but the extent of value is subjective, and one over which the writer has no control. One may as well be dead, for all the influence one might exert upon a reader as to one's preferences or intent.
From this afterlife, upon the floorboards of the room above, a ghost, pacing.
*THIS* "old friend"? :-)
ReplyDeleteActually, I didn't write that meme ... I reposted it from a buddy here who said it reminded him of me. We used to commute to Wycliffe together for work.
"Old" yes. "friend", yes. While time remains we really do need to reaffirm and enjoy the peace of that friendship. As I expect you'd agree - it goes deeper than friendship; beyond brotherhood even.
As time allows, a common bond.
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