Weeds

Every time I’ve gone through all my poems, the last two times reading every one, I’ve suffered some embarrassment. At every stage I’ve tried to weed out the weaker ones, the ones that just didn’t seem to belong. Some of them were wily, on one reading I’d swear that they were weeds and almost pull them and chuck them into the reject pile. Then, on next reading I’d feel that weed was indeed a flower, however scraggly. Anyway, the total number of poems in this compilation has dropped from nearly 500 to closer to 450, but who’s counting?

I still feel some embarrassment about some of them. Indeed, some are not as strong as others, but then, how could they be? Nobody is going to like all of them. I don’t. “No two people read the same book. What’s one man’s weed, might just be another man’s flower. And vice versa. I’m done. I quit

The Poetry of
Jack Scott

Notebook

Weeds