all my children

i was asked to clarify what i meant by trim the fat. i tend to be too accepting of my lesser poems, my weak stuff gets as much place as my stronger stuff. the thing is, i'm so close to this stuff i can't tell, often what is strong and what is weak until i've lived with them awhile.

these poems come to me and i write them down. they sing themselves to me in a way. i know some people are uncomfortable with my using this kind of language to speak about what i do, but to say anything else would be inaccurate at best, a lie at worst.

so, the way i decide if they are strong is after awhile, years, if i still feel the strength of them when i read them, either aloud or as i'm perusing them, then i know they are strong. if they can live on their own, beside the others i've written, then i know they are strong. if they can't, they would be culled out of the herd and likely forgotten (at least not presented to others).

truth be told, i am enamoured of all my children (i call poems my children), because they come when i need them. by this account, i am sarah, mother of nations. so many poems have come to fill my life, i have trouble choosing whom i shall dote on. whom i shall take to poetry readings and let stand before the people on their own.

there are a few reliables, a few that are so strong and brave and wise, i am certain they will define me as a poet. these children, though are not me. they are merely those who have come to join me. to bless me. to minister to me and those who read them and are ministered to.

so what does trimming the fat mean? leaving the weaklings at home in their oxygen tents where they may someday gain enough strength to see the world. or they will die. but they will always be with me. either in thought or actuality.

either you're enlightened or baffled. which is usually the case when i write something. i hope it is the former.