A poem to blow up to poster-size and frame
and hang on your cubicle wall
Lately I'm reading Slouching Toward Nirvana, new collection of poems by the super-accessible poet (means: you can understand his poems the first time through, as if anybody is going to bother reading anything twice in this day and age) Charles Bukowski.
In one poem, Bukowski defends himself and all writers against all lovers and corporate communication vice presidents who would interrupt our writing us to ask if we want to go to a Cubs game this afternoon or if we won't mind sitting in on another fucking bullshit strategy meeting:
NEVER INTERRUPT A WRITER AT WORKmost simply don't understand that writing is
done
at a certain time and in a certain
place.
we work just like other professional people
like
dentists
doctors
butchers
lawyers
fry cooks
policemen
actors
trapeze artists
waiters, taxi drivers, airline pilots, insurance salesmen,
bond bailsmen, auto
mechanics and sundry
others.we need our quiet time to do what we are supposed
to do.
it's as simple and profound and
necessary as
that.and you're absolutely right
if you think I'm bitching
about you
about this.
Copyright 2005, CCCO, an imprint of HarperCollins.
