There are some questions that shouldn’t be asked. How big is your penis? Have you stopped beating your wife? Did you kill anybody in the war? Pretty obvious stuff.
One I am often asked concerns my poetry: Tell me what it means?
Babe or Bro, that’s not my job. It’s yours. It’s a question only posed by the lazy.
I couldn’t answer it even if I wanted to, which I don’t. No answer I could supply would be your answer.
I may have some idea what a poem means to me (or not), but if I do, it will be vague and nebulous. The poem may have meant one thing to me when I wrote it, but something else as time has passed. It might mean one thing in Pennsylvania, but something quite different in Kathmandu. A man or a woman might read it differently, as might a dentist or a hooker. There is no one right answer.
What it means to you is what it means to you. How am I supposed to know that?
“Art is what an artist does, not what an artist explains.”
Man or woman up! Read, think, and decide for yourself. Your answer may be… nothing. I won’t be insulted. At least you did your work, as I did mine.
If you like this piece, and can afford it, please dribble a few coins into the busker’s cup.
Answering unimaginable questions…