I have just finished reading many of my poems.
I do not do this often, but when I do, I am amazed
at their singular beauty, their eloquence, their exquisite
insights. You may think me solipsistic, self-centered,
egotistical. Go ahead. I don't mind. Actually, I
don't care what you or anyone else thinks. But
I do care what I think, because every poem I
have ever written is a real part of me, and if I am
not real, I am false to myself and to the Cosmos,
my ultimate anathema. So many of us believe that
what matters is not truth, but the antithesis thereof.
So many actors and writers and artists and poets
care only that others applaud them, award them
prizes that, for them, validate their creations, their
performances, their poems, and their paintings.
Sadly, these are all collectively grand illusions.
Hemingway wins the Nobel prize, then later
shoots himself dead in Ketchum, Idaho. I have
written that "the poem is the prize," because I
think and feel and believe that is truth. There
will be no opulent ceremonies for me in Oslo,
no Pulitzer Prizes, just as there were none for
William Blake and Walt Whitman and Emily
Dickinson. But each wrote their truths that,
in time, others finally discovered, and while
their poems won no prizes, they became increa-
singly beloved and embraced and treasured.
Truth is the most precious gift you can ever
give to anyone, to everyone. Truth alone is
immortal. Give it to the Cosmos.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks