While writing, I don’t quite know my spirit.
I appear absent, but I’m trembling in
A world of secret happiness, grasping
Nothing, blissfully intoxicated.
Being carefree is important, just as
It’s crucial to enjoy playing structure.
It can be sweet when these things pursue us;
Then we want to be everything for them.
The fine, subtle, delicate things, seem best,
But there are questions that can’t be answered.

I’d like to suggest that the absence of
An answer can be heavenly when it’s
A vague, enchanted, majestic reply
And I’d like this to be true for longer.
Those who are raised to be competitive
Are not like those brought up to honour love.
I say this as I want to remember;
We are ****** with too much judgement, it stops
The heart from getting enough love to grow.
There’s little doubt we’ve all suffered from this.

I’m thinking about a kind heroine,
Thinking myself the hero of this tale.
In a mood of audacity, I cross
The boundaries of the familiar
And ****** myself through the crust to freedom.
With words, I try to smile a charming smile
But it is too delicate to smile it.
I am not a human among humans
I’m a scent grown fragrant by the heart, one
Who swims alone in a human breast.

When I choose to create a fantasy
From my secret reveries and daydreams,
Conjuring, say, sweet meadows to lie in,
A place to gaze up at birch tree branches,
I do these things to pledge my cheerfulness.
I have no desire to own anything
And still my branches grow higher each day.
All I am is what I have never been
And should you now start dreaming about me,
The concerns I have will melt in the night.

When my thoughts afflict me, I pile them up.
Grief isn’t cute, my anger lacks worth and
I torment blues in the soul needlessly.
I will never glare at you crossly, I’d
Hate to encourage your woes and sorrows.
You can afford to be gentle, don’t slay
Your noble emotions and mellow voice,
Don’t keep your elegance on the inside,
You must know there are times when the simple
Can only be grasped with almost no effort.

The trees apologized, but they hadn’t
Done a thing that required a confession.
I know nothing, so I keep as quiet
As a painter with a full brush of paint.
Then, when my lucid consciousness sits up,
Alert, I gather my thoughts in a flash
And strike out, sensing that all lives can lead
To a new path of possibilities.
It’s pleasing to pull oneself together
After seasons loyal to inertia.


This poem was inspired by Looking at Pictures, a collection
of texts by Robert Walser. Published by New Directions.