by Richard West

Poems apparently don’t operate on the same schedules we do.

They hardly ever arrive when we expect them –  as when

we witness stampedes of endless stars crossing the open skies

on cloudless, breath-snatching, soul-arousing nights, 

or when we stand before some flaming sunset ocean 

shriveled by our own smallness and the symphonic 

magnitude of what we see.

Instead, as every poet knows, poems are prone to show up 

unannounced while we are busy or indisposed – 

driving, or brushing teeth, or grooming dog, or especially

at that moment when we are finally, finally, getting to sleep.   

Then, knocking at our mind’s door like country relatives, 

they come and expect that we will answer and let them in 

regardless of the time –  and if  we have only five minutes free 

an hour-long poem will arrive, or maybe two –  

not calibrated to any present mood, but 

often enough the opposite of how we feel. 

In these and many other ways, poems are often boorish

and inconsiderate in the extreme. Yet poets,

dedicated as we are, smile and welcome them anyway.