Sharing a Poem

Very occasionally, I have the impetus to write a poem. And very much less occasionally, I have the impetus to share. It’s a strange feeling for me. Erika and I started this website because we wanted a forum for sharing our writing. And the writing of others.

And yet I feel private and protective concerning my poetry. But I had the desire today to talk about that privateness; that inwardness. And there’s no simple way to talk about it without at least giving an example.

I don’t really consider myself a poet. I used to. But you can tell, right? That I’m not in my natural element? I’m being too circumspect by half. If I did feel comfortable writing poems, I’d just post one and leave the analysis to the reader. Instead of doing all this preamble stuff.

A Poem is a Milestone in Time

For me the purpose of a poem is to immortalize two moments. When I read this poem, I can see the moment of its inception. By which I mean the moment it’s about. And I can see the moment of its creation. Whenever I wrote it down. Most times, when you read a poem, you can’t tell much about either. Most poems take liberties with their subject matter. And give only vague hints as to what is happening in the poet’s world as they write.

At any rate, I don’t think of myself as a poet. As a teacher, an essayist, a scholar? Sure. But my mind doesn’t apprehend the world through the prism of poetry. Not as a general rule. Neither reading nor writing. I like my music without lyrics. And I like poetry that tells a story, even if it’s a convoluted story. Some people love nothing more than to disentangle the mysteries of a poem by Wallace Stevens or Derek Walcott. My dissertation advisor was like that. Not I. Anything more opaque than Homer or Milton or Gregory Corso leaves me on the dock.

Still, I write poems every so often. One or two a year. I encourage anyone to do likewise. For all that the medium infuriates and baffles me, I consider poetry the most direct line to the inner workings of the psyche. Whether it’s good for anything else is up to the skill of the poet.

I Begin with Knowing

I begin with knowing
That the most perfect poem about sleep
Is the flicker of thought
When my eyes glance over from my book.
I would never be able to write it down
Because interrupting a moment
To try to capture it
Might mean losing it.
And I need that moment.
I need it just then, just the way it is, uncaptured.
It makes the other moments possible.
Like this one. This one right now.

Maybe just take a moment.
This moment.
Close your eyes.
Imagine that bed that we shared
Before the swirling chaos of
These past two years
Amidst the swirling chaos that came before
Imagine the swirling patterns
Of the comforters you picked out
Imagine your shoulder
Rising and falling, rising and falling.

This moment might last a minute, or an hour.
The only sounds are of breathing and page-turning.
Wind rattling the branches of the mulberry
Growing out of solid concrete and reaching
just as high as our fourth-floor window

The occasional siren

Car horn

Your shoulder
Rising and falling, rising and falling

Then another page turns.

(11 December 2021)

By the Way

If you write the odd poem and are looking for a place to publish it, we’d be happy to assist!