“Tell us what you’re writing.”
I answer, “I don’t know.”
They say, “How can that be?
You’re writing every day!”
I tell them, “I just don’t.”
It’s true; I really don’t,
but it’s what I have to do.
I couldn’t tell you why.
I read Neruda once;
he called these gifts of blue,
and they must be done.
He said it was his duty.
I don’t know if it’s mine
but I write them every day.
Are any of them good?
It’s not for me to say
but I have to write them.
It feels like I’ve no choice
but to write these gifts
of the blue variety.
And if I tell the truth,
I don’t know how to do it.
I haven’t pretty paper,
tape or winding ribbon;
I don’t know how to wrap them,
to wrap my gifts of blue.
But it’s also true
I always do my best.
March 31, 2017
Note
The original of this poem, or Blue Gifts I, was written in January of 1996. Both versions are prompted by Pablo Neruda’s ‘To My Duties‘, which you’ll find if you click the link and scroll down it’s page a bit. (Both of mine fall far short of Neruda’s poem.)