What Even Is a Poem?
Whose sadistic, asinine idea was “a poem a day”? As if the muse can be scheduled. As if creativity were one more thing to measure, check off, gamify. What even is a poem, besides something keeping me up? When does compression tip over into aphorism? When does free verse become prose? Am I being prosaic? I don’t even know if I like poetry. On the other hand… I’ve improved more by moving on than by trying to perfect that one piece. Some of my favorite pieces arrived when I had nothing and just wanted to go to bed. My sangha knows more about me from 50 short poems than from hours of dharma talks. Even my wife is getting to know me better. And I’m noticing life more. I think I’ll sleep a little sounder tonight.
Thanks for paying attention with me.
If this resonates, I’d love to hear from you. A comment, a share, or even just a like goes a long way. Writing into the void is its own practice, but knowing the work lands makes it easier to keep showing up.