People love those great romantics
with their self-absorbed delirium
especially if they die of tuberculosis or worse or alone.
But garrets are passé, starving is forever,
and audiences matter.
As long as you don’t let it show.
Unnecessary, it seems to me,
your sighing, your plaintive distress.
We know, we’ve been there, no need to tarry.
Mere hint and then whisk over.
Sunlight lingering on a teardrop
Is more effective by far than a November soaking.
Madam, if I may… tell you that you whinge
and use a hundred words
where a spatter of six will do.
Your ears so waxed with self-pity and doubts,
your voice so coarsened by years of neglect,
that you forget to listen and render with fidelity,
you lose the joy of using a microscope.
Cut smaller still your canvas,
till you can stitch it to perfection.
Be precious, not so greedy to spit out the half-digested…
Polish your gemstones for years.
Mock, but with purpose,
yourself before all others.
And then perhaps some decades hence
you’ll learn to make it look
Perhaps not quite the right response to the prompt about winning and losing for dVerse Poets, but I am having an internal dialogue with my writing hero, Caragiale, Romanian playwright, journalist and short story writer. Every word perfectly chosen and placed. Unlike my gushing, spouting self. I know I will be a winner when I finally learn to control the rawness and shape the internal world more gracefully.