I wrote a poem today, which is not something I typically do. In fact, I didn’t intend to do it at all.
I was listening to Mike Birbiglia’s postcast, Working it Out. In episode 4, he talks about writing poetry with his wife, and Matt Berninger and Carin Besser of The National. They talked about all the people who are out there making creative work, but not showing or sharing it. Maybe not even having the desire to share. Mike seemed surprised and fascinated by the idea, and I also find it very strange to think about. Whenever I write, I always have the vague idea of a reader other than myself in mind.
They discussed working on a poem for years, “like knitting,” with no real concern or urgency for finishing it. In fact, specifically enjoying the not-doneness of it. Writing as a pass-time. Writing as a personal, private act, or peaceful meditation.
This idea really struck me. So even though I don’t write poetry, it felt fitting in the moment to write a poem about writing poems. I started writing, and before I knew it, a poem happened. I won’t vouch for the quality, but it was a fun little spontaneous act of creation. In fact, it was fun enough that I’m thinking I might delve into poetry again some time.
She writes Taps the keys A poem, a secret, between her and the screen Words are fluid Day to day, month to month, Year to year Obsequious to whim and whimsy To whatever mood takes her That day That year The poems are not for others They are hers They are her They are A slow progression, knitting Bonsai trimming Cutting hair No desire to share To show Not greedy Just comfortable in the words In the middle of making No concern For done