i've learnt that the greatest prompt and subsequent impromptu to yet another poem is to be constantly dissatisfied with one's output, because there's hardly a solemn care for so little with so much intent: prose writers are due respect for hammering so many little and big words into novels with an odd flash of poetic genius, poets are always left dissatisfied because of this, their open-plan scribbles are the compensation odes to the bulk of bulging plotted out scenarios of fiction - i too wish i had the capacity to write so much, bound by 21 volumes of a Dickens or a Balzac, but whereas they have their endless stream of words and compensate very little in terms of poetic economics, i can:
do this
do that
and revel
in the blank trimmings
of a rim
of a canvas: with each dispute
the white, the snow
grin of defeat;
or like the chinese poets said: haiku yin-yang
the poem must be,
less mechanism of anything,
more association of mechanisms as you elsewhere;
well less art more ****: make each poem
a yin-yang assimilation - x-ray the renaissance paintings
and the impressionists, and the still-life
painters and the cubists and realists and the pre-raphaelites...