Issue 62: Maybe Noticing is Enough

Roses are rosey

And what the heck is a “pocket full of posies”?

I googled it once and fell into a hole

About plague prevention and medieval disease control

In college I wrote poems to feel deep and impressive

I would pretend to have lived a life worthy of reflection

These days I mostly fill emails with corporate words

And count it a win if I notice the birds

But give me a quiet commute and an interestingly shaped cloud

And suddenly I’m writing stanzas out loud

No audience, no pen, no acclaim, no applause

Just a guy and a red light, remembering who he was

I haven’t written a proper poem in about seven years

But I still organize feelings in ways that bring others to tears

It doesn’t always rhyme, and they don’t always get read

But the lines still show up, uninvited, when I’m lying in bed

So am I still a poet, if I no longer write poems?

Or just a guy who notices falling leaves and mispronounces “gnomes”?

I used to write poetry. They often didn’t rhyme and definitely didn’t follow the structure above, but they were my introduction to quiet reflection and viewing everyday moments from different angles, seeing what shadows they cast in each light. I don’t write poetry much these days, but sometimes I sit on the table at work and let my feet hang. I take long, deep breaths when a moment feels perfect. I walk slower when a memory surprises me. 

I found the last bit of a poem I wrote, maybe seven years ago. It wasn’t finished, or maybe it was and I just didn’t think it was worth sharing. It went like this:

I get a third cup of coffee just to have something to do

 Now I have too much energy, but nothing left to do

 The coffee isn’t good, but water tastes like nothing

 So at least it’s something

I emptied the pot so someone can make more

 Another me has another chore

 Maybe nobody will drink any, but they can fill their cup

 So at least it’s something

That’s not a great poem. But it’s me. It’s still how I think: noticing too much. Assigning meaning where there might not be any. Giving too much credit to small rituals and inanimate objects. I keep a small notebook in my back pocket. I have for about as long as I can remember. I used to fill this notebook with lines of poetry, with observations, with the ineffable. Now, the notebook is mostly to-do’s that need to be to-done, items on my shopping list, or names of songs I should check out. I didn’t decide to stop writing poems, to stop filling the notebook with lines and phrases, I just… stopped. Like the way you stop climbing trees, or stop drawing that little Superman “S” in the corners of your notebooks.

But lately I’ve been wondering: if you stop writing poems, are you still a poet? If a violinist stops performing, is she still a musician? If someone stops praying out loud, does that mean they stopped believing? Essentially, does the action define the character? If you don’t post pictures of your workout, are you still a douche? If you haven’t baked a cake, or even a measly cupcake, are you still a baker? If you haven’t finished a book in months but still wander the library like it’s a sacred place, does that count for something?

I keep coming back to this one:

If I stopped writing poems, but still think in rhythm, still notice the way everyone’s heads bob up and down in unison when a plane dips, still feel a line begin to form when something beautiful happens; what do I call that?

Maybe being a poet was never about poems. Maybe it was about noticing. Maybe it was about being willing to name what most people rush past. Maybe it was about slowing down, paying attention, and hoping that attention might be enough.

Is there some part of identity that stays quiet, dormant, woven into the way you see and feel and move? Is there some part of identity that stays not in output, but in observation? Not in the speaking, but in the way we see? 

If identity lives in action, what happens when the action stops? What do we call a runner who hasn’t laced up in a year? A teacher on sabbatical? A dad after the kids have left home? (We all knew this piece was going to find its way here.) Is the title revoked? Does the muscle memory count for nothing? Do we only “be” if we’re constantly “doing”?

I used to think the answer was yes. That I had to keep proving it. That being a poet meant publishing, or even just showing, my work. But lately, I wonder if it’s the other way around. Maybe we do things because we are them, not to become them. Maybe the runner was always a runner, even as a kid sprinting down hallways. Maybe the teacher still teaches, even if it’s just showing someone how to work the espresso machine. Maybe the dad is still a dad, even when the house is quiet, because he still finds himself keeping bandaids close by for a scraped knee that no longer needs his attention.

Maybe identity is less like a job description and more like a scent that lingers in a room after someone leaves. It’s not erased, just absorbed. Maybe identity isn’t just what we do, it’s what we leave behind. Maybe it’s the reason someone else notices the birds now. Maybe it’s the quiet way you taught someone else to pay attention. Maybe it’s a kid somewhere who’s grown and gone, who still looks for Band-Aids in the top right drawer because they know that’s where you kept them.

I haven’t written a poem in seven years, but I still know what it feels like when a moment rhymes. So maybe I didn’t stop writing poems, I just stopped formatting them that way.

Maybe the poems just changed clothes.

Maybe they dress like conversations now.

Like bedtime stories.

Like “Did you see the moon tonight?”

Like “I saved you the last bite.”

Maybe I’m still writing. Just differently.

Maybe.