Prodigally Content

How many poems are in me?
Is it a host? Or legion?
Or only one more?
I was going to count, but
demurred, recalling their
surreptitious character.

But I do know that every
now and then, a poem
deigns to let go, and
then again like
an echo
comes back to haunt me,
sauntering
about my ear –
foreign yet familiar and
prodigally content
to shadow me.

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6 thoughts on “Prodigally Content

  1. shoreacres says:

    I’m amused beyond words. Both of us posted a poem today, and both of us played with “content” and its various meanings. Funny, that.

    I love the thought of a prodigal poem – prodigal content, if you will. Poems are such funny things. I came across the best line from Billy Collins: “While the novelist is banging on his typewriter, the poet is watching a fly in a windowpane.” Isn’t that just the truth?

  2. Yup. I wanted to say the same thing. The poem is a prodigal, both in the sense of wandering and of being unexpectedly generous with us. Thanks for your own prodigality (?) Allen.

    • agjorgenson says:

      “Prodigality” works for me! Poetry is so very interesting in its seeming agency: coming, going, spitting in my eye on minute and bring me a fine single-malt the next. Fickle, this prodigal, but intoxicatingly so.

  3. jannatwrites says:

    We never know how many words we have in us and whether those words will string together into a poem that is pleasing to our ears. I like the phrase, prodigally content.

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