Deliberation

Writing a poem is straightforward. Most of the time. Explaining the poem is hard. Embarrassing, even.

But what is almost impossible is describing what being a poet means: how the frame shrinks or expands suddenly, how objects and colours are interchangeable, how things connect to other things like strangers on a train, how every word, every sky, every shadow, every explanation, even this one, creeps into a poem, creeps into the poet, the process of stillness and transformation simultaneous, incessant and inevitable.

How long before eyes glaze over? How long before the conversation slides into a shallow awkwardness? How long before that pause segues into inanity? How long before dusk descends upon yet another impotent day?

How long before you write another despondent poem? Again.

How long before you try to explain. Again.

What is this thing where —

I tell you I dreamt of a poem
I tell you a poem dreamt of me
I tell you I need to talk about
a poem I read
a poem I wrote
a poem the sea completed for me
a poem that I neither read nor wrote
but looks at me from between clouds

I tell you I go to museums 
and artists turn into poets
I see a giant installation made with 
old crates and chewing gum 
and it rhymes like a runaway verse 

And you lean back in your chair
and you sip your drink
and you tell me the weather is just right
to fall asleep 
the wind warm against skin 
the world mellow, fading to dusk
giving into the nothing

And I wonder 
if it is me 
unable to understand this intersection
of elements and purposeless bliss
if it is me
letting life slip by in pursuit of a word
if it is me
not seizing the moment but letting
it fill an entire line
if it is my fault for not knowing
how to close my eyes and block poem
and surf and sand and gull 
if it is me 
letting my world go flat as I scan the horizon
for a gap, a track, a door ajar —

if it is me
wondering if this is what gaslighting means
to dismiss a poem
to dismiss a poet
to treat sea only as sea
sky only as sky
day only as day
nothing only as nothing

if a moth, three inches from the flame,
ever had to wonder about this.

#Poetry