When I met my boyfriend, he told me he was a photographer. I found this fascinating because when asked what I do, I've never said "writer." When I hear the word "writer" resound in my head, I think Keats, the Fitzgeralds, and of course Uncle Walt. Never does my name flicker in bright letters across the kiosk of my mind. For a while, I thought maybe this had something to do with me not making money writing, but the fact of the matter is, I have made money writing (although not enough to pay the rent). I've read to the public, been well received by other writers, been accepted to an MFA program, but I just can't pull the trigger on calling myself a writer.
And tonight it dawned on me.
I don't consider myself a writer because I don't do it that often. Once a month now, once every six months last year. At my best, I wrote twice a week in college. But what if I treated it like my job? What if I pursued writing like a career... doing it every day for a considerable amount of time?
Food for thought, but anyway, here is my real reason for writing today's post: a poem.
We see the same scenes:
a haunting silhouette
left by a crescent moon.
Newborn sheep gaining
their legs, curly hair still pristine and white.
A bee on a clothesline,
wings batting wildly, fishing wire
pinched by pins.
For him, art is different.
He freezes the frame:
catches the dog forever barking,
two lovers whose lips never stop,
and the quilt, yellow,
hanging incessantly off a chair.
For me, art is fleeting.
Two words juxtaposed,
Phrases slipping off the tongue,
An image —