National Day on Writing Posted on October 20, 2015 by sarahashelton under Life, Writing Is National Day on Writing First Year Writing photo booth outside the Central Library, UTA Share this:TwitterFacebookLike this:Like Loading... Related
I fear that I’ve sent you this poem before, but it’s, like so relevant here re. why I write: first draft (in e-mail to TL) Poetry at Its Best 1.26.18 I prefer writing poetry to reading it; reading poetry aloud to the other way. I prefer reading almost anything to reading about poetry on most days. I want to write I’d rather hear a poem read than read a poem heard, but I do not believe it’s true. I write what’s not true because I rather like the wiggly way the words wind the line like a worm on a fish hook. Most days I enjoy reading a poem I have heard read as much as I enjoyed hearing it. Read. Today comparing one joy to another seems wrong like enjambment writing awkward on purpose or not true. I prefer seeing visual art to creating it; seeing how my creations take shape robs me of much joy. Not so much do I compare my work with other artists’ as with the art I make in mind. Before hand. The words my mind makes that some days I call art remain the same in my mind and on my line. Or else I change them. Poetry at its best invites others to write it. Poets at their best make poets of us all. Who claims art at its best invites others to buy it, makes us critics all, picture framers, comparison shoppers, commodity traders all. [Additional line that begs inclusion:
But somebody has to pay for the paint.] LikeLike Reply
Sarah A. Shelton, Ph.D. 
I fear that I’ve sent you this poem before, but it’s, like so relevant here re. why I write:
first draft (in e-mail to TL)
Poetry at Its Best
1.26.18
I prefer writing poetry
to reading it; reading poetry
aloud to the other way.
I prefer reading almost anything
to reading about poetry
on most days.
I want to write I’d rather hear
a poem read than read a poem heard,
but I do not believe it’s true.
I write what’s not true because I rather
like the wiggly way the words wind the line
like a worm on a fish hook.
Most days I enjoy reading
a poem I have heard read
as much as I enjoyed hearing it. Read.
Today comparing one joy to another
seems wrong like enjambment writing
awkward on purpose or not true.
I prefer seeing visual art
to creating it; seeing how my creations
take shape robs me of much joy.
Not so much do I compare
my work with other artists’ as
with the art I make in mind. Before hand.
The words my mind makes
that some days I call art remain
the same in my mind and on my line.
Or else I change them.
Poetry at its best invites
others to write it. Poets at their best
make poets of us all.
Who claims art at its best invites
others to buy it, makes us critics all,
picture framers, comparison shoppers,
commodity traders all.
[Additional line that begs inclusion:
But somebody has to pay for the paint.]
LikeLike