Another poem today from the collection I am curating, and have titled The Burning Archive. This one seems strangely prescient of the decision to write openly, if as always with a few masks at hand, and freely on the rich, open plains of the internet It speaks to me of this never-too-late journey of creative recovery that I now will never turn my back on again.
Belated
I am a belated one
At 47 at last a room of my own
Now I wear long shirts over
the scars of mother’s tears
The words have always waited for me
Deep within my guts
Now they come, resurgent and bold
Too known to care
For publishers’ judgments.
Jeff Rich 2016
