I keep tapping out poems daily. I read, I listen, I think - I take in the world and then I speak back in the form of a poem, of words compressed into something that makes others just maybe, just maybe, question their own status quo and default software.
My few close readers or sometimes others ask me, why keep churning out these words? Few read, few listen, you have no fame, no platform, no glory. Nobody buys your books. Etc …
“No one behind, no one ahead.
The path the ancients cleared has closed.
And the other path, everyone's path,
easy and wide, goes nowhere.
I am alone and find my way.”
― Octavio Paz
I don’t write poetry for any of that. Nobels or notoriety. The ego or the acclaim. So then, why?
I write words because there is a necessity to speak out. The first amendment, the first commandment, isn’t to speak the truth - it is just to speak. Get it out there.
I write poems to let that teenager sitting in his bed with a notebook and pen in hand know that it’s okay to do that. It’s an honorable job - a poet’s work. Don’t do it because you’ll get that girl (but sweet words do come in handy), don’t do it to be published or admired by MFA flunkies. Don’t do it to see your name in print. Just do it because you have to - you feel this need to speak. Our voice is precious and the voice of a poet, well-read, well thought, observant and prescient - even more so.
In these days of lies and luxury. In these days where the devil comes in the front door, dressed in bling and falsity. In these days where even our determined Diogenes don’t walk the streets looking for an honest man. In these days of solemn Sodom and glowing Gommorah - to speak is to be authentic. We need a return to sincerity and authenticity. A time when a man’s, a woman’s identity rested not on possessions, things, money, fame, “success” but on one’s word, one walking true through this world of false idols.
“This is perhaps the most noble aim of poetry, to attach ourselves to the world around us, to turn desire into love, to embrace, finally what always evades us, what is beyond, but what is always there – the unspoken, the spirit, the soul.”
― Octavio Paz, The Other Voice: Essays on Modern Poetry
So I write poetry. Here is another one. As the carpenter swings his hammer and drives in nails - I spit out words and squeeze them into hearts. I try to teach our tongues to speak what is in our hearts.
It’s Up To You
I write poetry
like a goose might
take a shit.
So, what of it?
As the smiling cook at
the boy’s home said
as he took off the pot’s lid,
“Anyone can have a kid.
It’s simple, like making soup –
but it’s the stirring
that counts.”
I write poetry
like a sick man
walking down the street
might spit.
So, what of it?
Nothing I can really do.
The real is up to you.