Advance Notice
When the
Great modern-day
Poet died
His wishes were
Granted
And his
Gravestone
Read,
“Don’t Try”.
Until now
I puzzled over
What he meant
Or what
His words
Could mean.
I never looked
To an authority
For the answer
Although
Now I know
There is one-
His widow
Has explained
The sentiment
Succinctly.
But I figured
It out
Myself
And it only
Took thirty-eight
Years.
And here
It is:
Life is not
About
“trying”,
Because
That’s simply
An excuse
That keeps
Us
From
Manifesting
Intention,
And
A portent
That our will
Is never
Going
To happen.
Who has
Time
For that
Sort
Of thing?
5/18/09
Great modern-day
Poet died
His wishes were
Granted
And his
Gravestone
Read,
“Don’t Try”.
Until now
I puzzled over
What he meant
Or what
His words
Could mean.
I never looked
To an authority
For the answer
Although
Now I know
There is one-
His widow
Has explained
The sentiment
Succinctly.
But I figured
It out
Myself
And it only
Took thirty-eight
Years.
And here
It is:
Life is not
About
“trying”,
Because
That’s simply
An excuse
That keeps
Us
From
Manifesting
Intention,
And
A portent
That our will
Is never
Going
To happen.
Who has
Time
For that
Sort
Of thing?
5/18/09
Labels: Poem
posted by Merge Divide at 12:15 AM
2 Comments:
so are You saying "why try"?
-mw
i like this one from the great degenerate:
If you are going to try, go all the way.
Otherwise don’t even start.
This could mean losing girlfriends, wives,
relatives, jobs and maybe your mind.
It could mean not eating for 3 or 4 days.
It could mean freezing on the park bench.
It could mean jail.
It could mean derision.
It could mean mockery, isolation.
Isolation is the gift.
All the others are a test of your endurance,
of how much you really want to do it.
And you’ll do it.
Despite rejection and worst odds
and it will be better than anything else you can imagine.
If you’re going to try, go all the way.
There is no other feeling like that.
You will be alone with the gods.
And the nights will flame with fire.
You will ride life straight to perfect laughter,
it’s the only good fight there is.
Charles Bukowski, Factotum
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