was sure I’d pull the fragments together in the morning.
Drifting back to dreams, mental notes were made
instead of forcing myself upright to clasp pen to pad.
Dawn’s whisper cracked eyes to the world but the words
vanished; stuck between dream sequences, nothing
seemed to squeeze them back into conscious mind.
Started my day suffering slight disappointment…
all because the displaced poem transformed itself
into a mist of ordinary things that are quickly forgotten.
Poet Richard Wilbur born in New York City (1921 - He came from a long line of editors, andthought he might become a journalist, but World War II changed his plans. Heserved in the infantry, read Edgar Allan Poe in the trenches, and wrote poemsabout the war, but he didn't write about the battles and the experience ofbeing on the front lines. Instead, he wrote about the quiet, lonely moments,like evenings spent peeling potatoes in the Army kitchen.
He said: "I would feel dead if I didn't have theability periodically to put my world in order with a poem. I think to beinarticulate is a great suffering, and is especially so to anyone who has a certainknack for poetry."