Poetry-schmoetry

December 9, 2002

I used to carry a camera with me everywhere I went. Anytime I took a vacation, I would eagerly hold it, searching for things to photograph—images that would capture the time, place, spirit, and essence. Over time, my focus shifted: I stopped taking photos of my trips and started having trips about my photos. The camera became a barrier, a filter, making me feel as if I wasn't truly experiencing anything. I was just looking. I’ve found that words can do the same. Trying constantly to capture my world in words gets in the way of feeling it spin. Tiny moments, preserved under glass, are undoubtedly precious. I admire those who can hold still the ocean, but I’m not one of them. That’s why I feel out of my element discussing poetry—love or otherwise. When I witness something beautiful and tender, words inevitably fall away. Sometimes I try. But the times I feel most inspired are usually the times I am most likely to fail.

Yeah, I know—hokey—but screw it, that was my point!

I once lived with a girlfriend who was a stripper. She used to receive love poems from customers all the time. Before tossing them out, we’d read them aloud to each other. I wish I still had one to quote. The poems were always goofy and full of nonsense—about some connection the author felt or some dream they’d had. Flowers appeared often. So did skin and hair. Some poems were really long. One guy wrote her at least a dozen four-page poems, droning on about things only existing in his warped fantasy world. The only thing he ever got right was her name, though even that wasn't her real name. But I can't criticize him too much because, even though we were together for a long time, it turned out I didn't know her either.