Along with novels, non-fiction and my political and social commentary, I have written poetry. Which may or may not be of interest to you but my wife and I were discussing a writer’s life this morning.
I commented that it struck me as strange that my writing—whatever the subject—left my consciousness very much like a dream, as soon as it was done. The upside of that is that on the rare occasion of reading something I have written, it looks new to me and I quite like it.
Case in point, I went to the bookcase and took down a copy of Broken Pieces, one of three published books of poetry. “I’ll open it to a page, any page,” I said “and read what’s there. We’ll see if it’s fresh and still works.”
Page 53 features a poem called The Blind Side and it’s about American football.
The Blind Side
Seconds, only seconds,
when ten make a lifetime.
A rush of defenders,
guys built like locomotives.
He drops back and back,
to find a downfield receiver
in a current of motion and color,
no time, no time, no time.