On Being Asked for Advice by Another Poet The swirling mists of your mind slow and solidify And fade into colors your eyes have known As the world returns to consciousness And one of the doctors standing over you says, "Congratulations! It's a poem!" You hold it close, As it nuzzles your chest, Feeding on your heartbeats. Then monsters begin to stir in the shadows. They circle closer, whispering questions: "Are you sure this is what you want?" "How do you know it's good enough?" "How do you know you're good enough?" You call out to your kinfolk. "Is this poem truly what it needs to be? Is it ready to be sent out into the world? Or does its hair need to be combed, Its nails trimmed, Its shoes polished?" I stand there by your side, At a loss for words. The request stirs up all sorts of emotions. Its awesome responsibility scares me. What if some comment I chance to make turns out to be ill-advised, or perhaps through no fault of its own is misunderstood? It could leave things worse off than had I not ventured to comment at all. All poetry is Rorschach tests, and I'm not even sure I know what I see in this. So how can I say what the shapes should be shoved around to show? There is something hiding underneath that may be a part of both of us. Or it may be mine alone. Or it may not be at all. Or perhaps it is the truth, but has been deluded into believing it is me. I am more at home in the left-brain lands. Were I to suggest changes to the maps of this shimmering shadowy Terra Incognita I might lead other wanderers astray. And even were I to map it truly and well, Would it stay there? The expiration dates on maps of this realm May be measured in milliseconds. So all I can say is to follow your heart. It is the only lamp that shines true here. -- Thomas G. Digby Portions written 14:59 03/25/2011 Remainder done 00:06 04/06/2011