What if I were a poet?
And what if, after telling myself and everyone else that I was a poet, I had a pile of poems as proof?
I could point to the pile: Pages of short unrhymed lines
About dogs howling at sirens I can’t hear
About forgetting
About punctuation
And about deep, meaningful crap.
Tommy Guerrero crashes Derby with an early-release stanza. Photo: Grant Brittain
What if, as a poet,
I was suddenly transformed into a man who finished
What he started?
A man who didn’t procrastinate
And sweep house
Or set up boards
Instead of getting to the task at hand.
If I were a poet, I’d sit down
I’d type up those short lines that said something hefty
And be done.
And I’d love my work because I’d want my work. My pile of proof.
But I’m not.
I’m not a poet.
I’m a desk warmer, a factory worker, a longshoreman.
I’m a high school student, a cord puller, a hammer swinger, a wrench, a gas pumper, a hustler.
Brother, father, son.
Not a poet, though.
Grant Taylor hucks a high one from his goofy-footed masterpiece: “Denmark Divergence.” Photo: Pierre Stachurska
But I have love.
I love getting out of the work. I love skipping the class. I love missing the meeting.
I love the misstep, the stumble, and the error.
And I love them because I want them.
And that’s the pile.
That’s the proof.
If I were a poet, I’d ditch this attempt and hide it from view.
Instead, I’m putting it atop my pile with the bails and the falls.
With the give-ups.
With the lagging and the disappointments.
But also with the learning, laughing, and those rare bolts-on moments.
Malba bombs Upland in heroic verse. Photo: MoFo
That pile
That whole pile
Is verse.
It’s too long and reads awkwardly — doesn’t rhyme, either.
But it is a pile.
So I got that going for me.
Listen to Tommy Guerrero’s playlist: 10 Songs Off My Phone
Love
Nice Pile!
Feeling it !