POETRY IS

“Bring Them Home”
J.B. Rowell

for Liam

rub stones
to find friction,
strike spark,
white pappus bursts
into orange flame,
blue smoke hum
numb of simple labor,
to light a fire
takes time
there is an easier way
to heat
the space between,
ignite

* * *

crush smaller
porous rocks
with gripped,
useful ones,
add water,
make a paste
seal your face,
travel as a stranger,
see overlooked
stones
select for no use-
ful purpose:
colors, patterns,
textures

* * *

toddler collection,
sorted
saved




Poetry defined is the indefinable for me. I'm sure there are many who disagree. People get their MFA, Ph.D., and have careers around writing poetry. I respect that, and it may even be in my not-so-distant-future to start on that path. Do you need an advanced education to write poetry? Maybe. Or maybe just to categorize and recognize various schools of poetry. Maybe to publish widely. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. What is definite is that there are no absolutes about poetry, what it is, where it's going. Nobody has a stronghold on it, it is slippery and strong, like water carving stone. So for now, I am a toddler who collects stones and arranges them for no particular reason. When I questioned my three-year-old son about why he likes to collect stones in his pockets he said, "I like to bring them home." He attributes feelings to them, he clicks them together. He listens. There are many types of stones with many uses. But they are all stones. Poetry has a multitude of schools and fierce opinions thrown about, but in the end, it is all poetry. There is an easier way to be than being a poet. We labor anyway. And sometimes we light a small fire and warm our hands. Sometimes we hide in poetry, sometimes expose. Always we notice something commonly overlooked, and bring it home.