|An Excerpt of Who I Am
||[Mar. 17th, 2015|05:22 am]
So she asked me almost immediately when she found out that I was a writer. I don’t know if she was trying to hide her enthusiasm or not. Either way she did a terrible job. She asked me, “What is the difference, then? What is the difference between a poem and a book?”|
For far longer than both I had intended to and far longer than I gave it any such thought. The answer I knew immediately. I have always known.
The answer tumbled forth as if I were a politician reciting a well-practiced address. Perhaps I am. Perhaps that is what it was. In any event, the answer was as simple as I am dull.
“The difference between writing a novel and writing a poem is the difference of the matter of the heart. It simply is, there is no choosing. There is no motive. There is no other. Nothing else exists. Just my heart, my thoughts, and the love that tumbles forth. I write that way. This is all just an extension you see. An extension of what your puzzled look asks? Well, an extension of me, of course. An extension of us – when us is whatever occupies the slivers of my thoughts as pen meets paper or fingers press keys. There is nothing. There is everything.
I guess for me the difference between a poem and a book is that I can love the book again. Not the poem. No, that’s a stain. A scar. An indelible moment. Given away. Sometimes stolen. Either way it is never mine. The book, well, it’s too many moments. Those I can keep. Those are for me. The poetry, well, it’s so quick. It’s gone as soon as it is here. It’s never mine.
Right now. For me. You’re smiling. That’s beauty.
I’ll keep that.
exhales and stands up
Well, it’s time I write.”