People say they like reading me and jokingly add that sometimes people don’t always understand me, that at the beginning of the day, my poetry goes more or less well between coffee and toast. I laugh with all my heart. Indeed, it is not always necessary to listen to poets (or politicians), and the poet has a personal responsibility to do something too. I am also aware that my soul waves have very little importance if they only move like motionless gelatin.
“Doing” is a vague concept, the subject of a great dispute between those who believe that only action matters and those who think that the mind, freed from its constraints, makes it possible to envisage the future differently. These two truths form their mutual shadows, and the answer probably comes at noon, when the day has definitively left the night and is about to return to it. No one is right, no one is wrong either.
Doing to do is not worth anything. Neither does training for fun. The poet who, for an ideal, adheres to a fascist party is no better than a dam builder who, for economic reasons, does not accept to protect a living heritage.
Problems arise when dialogue does not take place between two supposedly sealed worlds. The poet will perceive more if he forces himself to confront his words with a silent reality. And we all know that the most impregnable cliff will fall under the patient assaults and tidal twists.
We live in a world abandoned by its wizards. Is it a good or a bad thing? Let’s wait until noon to find out the answer. And in the meantime, let’s get back to our chores.