The courage to write poetry is to let the very act of writing it fall apart and let it come back together again, if that’s what it wants to do, and just be honest about it as it is and as you are, and as you are who you are at one place in time, understand that it all changes and you might not be exactly that for them anymore, how you thought, or how they thought. How are you different—today?
To write this goes so far beyond being known as the one who writes it, beyond the place it’s shouted, to be asked about it, asked to repeat it, asked for more of it, to be demanded to release the secret recipe to a public consumed by millions of bits of media-ideation pushing memes, dreams, and nightmares to new levels.
As ideas materialize they don’t always make for the best of conversations, nor should they be a part of the conversation, at least the ones you’re invited to.
I’m a fan of the idea that once you get started with something you can get infatuated for awhile, and over time possibly lose interest, but you’ve still been marked by the thing. Suddenly you’re swept back up by a mysterious momentum, or someone else burning, might, in some strange way, take you under their wing.
Be alone and sit still and process this life for a bit as it’s natural to do so, for as long as children aren’t starving in your corner, and never announce a verse from the very beginning. It’s not exactly the same as having a baby that always pops out.
Ideas flip and fizz into the abortion bin as quickly as a hand turns a staticky AM radio dial.
Verbalizing poetry is humbling, tricky, difficult, enriching, otherworldly. It helps you weed out your fake friends for your true friends who will stick with your poetry. Poetry can do this for you.
Confirm with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen—everything is on fire and you can write it all.