, , ,

But why? She asked.
As though a bit of a crime –
Asked with all the repetitious insistence of a toddler,
but none of the childish naiveté that would free me to say
Well, because.

It had started with the pink hard cover creeping out the corner
of my far-too-heavy
Why do you carry that? She asked.

Well, I may need it, need to see it or to read it or to write something
Important down. You never know when inspiration may
Receive you.
Yes, I laughed. Receive you. Like the arms that meet you
Behind the door that swings to greet you –
and I had better have a pen and paper.

Pen and paper, why? Because I
am a writer.
Well, couldn’t you just, you know
[I didn’t]
Type it into your cell phone or something? Afterall,
It would be lighter… No,
Because I am a poet. I stated –

Stated, the only word
Appropriate for the slightly aggressive way in which I dropped that
Period, clearly –
And there is poetry in kinetics, creativity in calligraphy
Inhales and exhales you can read in graphite that you can’t see in bold face type
Good lines – you can circle them
And the rest of them? Well,
You scribble them or strike them
or just leave them, saved for later .

They breathe only long enough to write it down
And by the time your scrolling eye returns, already
It’s carbonation fizzles out
And sometimes, they will tempt and tease you
One strand of yarn you can’t forget
But you can’t knit a stanza with
And sometimes, (but hardly ever)
Your hand will write without your mind
Like shaking boxes upside down and
Perfectly casted lines fall out
Either way, within these pages
Crap and craft share residence
But I always need to visit space
Where I can store the evidence

I get it, she said
You’re a writer, yes
[And that’s when it happened]
But why?

Not a Writer, obviously. She’d not have asked me
Why I Write
But I am just a writer – why?
Because I can’t sing or paint

Because my great aunt died when I was nine

Because my art teacher told me to describe a color
To someone who was blind

Because I wanted to be an astronaut, wrote so
And made my teacher cry

Because sometimes, someone says a word
Like vespers
And I feel electricity in my spine

But mostly because I’m not sure I’d exist
If I ever ceased to write.

A great poem I found by Authored Angioplasty titled #110 and wanted to share with everyone. I especially wanted to share with those of whom write, and agree with the final sentence of the poem.

Ermisenda Alvarez