Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
brooks-popwellesPoems
I never took a towel with fear To dip in bowls of strain, So why do these afflict me when I play my song again? Am I a greater person than The Servant was who lived? Are these who sit before me More in worth than those he loved? Why is my task so different? Can my few moments be Profounder work than all performed By those who bent a knee? And is this work so vital That I can't afford to err? Did any thought at all like this One moment strike him there? I wish it all were different! I wish I always found I'd met somebody's certain need When playing certain sounds. I wish that when I labored Someone else's life improved. Instead I fear each hour played Is one for self I've lived. And if not, why not? Can perfected pitches heal a soul? And if so, how can I Bind private efforts to this goal? Is playing truly service? Doesn't every nerve reveal My selfish goals?  If giving's All I want, what's this I feel? The world's got scores of other tasks Without this endless dread, The ones—quite naturally— Which leave my brother clothed and fed. So why go back to start An inward fight without an end— And with such meager impact For the toils that I would spend? But maybe—here is something— This dilemma is my cross: To meet, as yet, an unseen need By counting all things loss; To labor all my life to learn To dip a foolish towel In basins filled with weakness While I feel a critic scowl.
0
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 10:26 AM UTC
On performing music
I never took a towel with fear To dip in bowls of strain, So why do these afflict me when I play my song again? Am I a greater person than The Servant was who lived? Are these who sit before me More in worth than those he loved? Why is my task so different? Can my few moments be Profounder work than all performed By those who bent a knee? And is this work so vital That I can't afford to err? Did any thought at all like this One moment strike him there? I wish it all were different! I wish I always found I'd met somebody's certain need When playing certain sounds. I wish that when I labored Someone else's life improved. Instead I fear each hour played Is one for self I've lived. And if not, why not? Can perfected pitches heal a soul? And if so, how can I Bind private efforts to this goal? Is playing truly service? Doesn't every nerve reveal My selfish goals?  If giving's All I want, what's this I feel? The world's got scores of other tasks Without this endless dread, The ones—quite naturally— Which leave my brother clothed and fed. So why go back to start An inward fight without an end— And with such meager impact For the toils that I would spend? But maybe—here is something— This dilemma is my cross: To meet, as yet, an unseen need By counting all things loss; To labor all my life to learn To dip a foolish towel In basins filled with weakness While I feel a critic scowl.
Written by
brooks-popwelles
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 10:26 AM UTC
Request permission to use this poem