This poem speaks of the effort involved in the writing process, especially poetry.
It is taken from a book called Time You Let Me In: 25 Poets Under 25. This is a collection of poems selected by Naomi Shihab Nye.
All of the poets are under the age of 25.
invitation by Mackenzie Connellee
used to write poetry in art class
when the teacher wasn’t looking,
but now i don’t take art and i can’t
afford not to pay attention in my
classes. now i write poetry in my
free time but that’s difficult
because words don’t appear like
a dog when you call their name, no,
poetry is anything but convenient.
right now it’s 1:05 a.m. because poetry
shook me by the shoulders and said
hey, this is important but now i’m wondering
if the lack of sleep is worth it. i feel
i am always weighing time by the quality
of poems written, because even when
the words grace me with their presence,
they don’t always choose to step
delicately into the world, pink shoes
treading softly over the white horizon.
usually poetry slops lazily over the couch
of a page and dangles while i remove its muddy
shoes and rearrange the pillows, all the while
muttering something about Frost and how maybe
his comments against free verse were right
all along (poetry in rhyme always cleans up
after itself) although honestly, you haven’t lived
until the homeless free-verse poem on your couch
decides to stay for a cup of tea and, if you’re
lucky, lets you take notes on everything he says.