Playerisms

the previous poem "Roses Today" came to me as i rode past Denvers botanical gardens the other day. as i rode by, the wafting aroma converted into word, then prose. i posted this last night. today, i took with me to work the Collected Works of William Carlos Williams where i came upon a page, well worn and highlights with notes named: The Rose. Its been so long since i have read from this book and yet, the eloquent wording used by this amazing poet has left its rut in my creative mind. many words he used are the very ones i did, in the same fashion. i wont delete mine, but i want to make known its not in any way original.

i was reminded of a conversation with a song/music writer not too long ago. we discussed how difficult it can be when youre trying to create from your own soul with out mimicking your major influences. perhaps this is the artists paradox, the constant fine line thats as hard as a diamond and thin as a hair.

"No poet, no artist of any sort, has his complete meaning alone. His significance, his appreciation is the appreciation of his relation to the dead poets and artists."
- T.S. Elliot