Donald Caswell's Why I Am a Poet

I am a poet. I am not a carpenter. Sometimes I think I would rather be a carpenter, but I am not. For instance, Gene, my carpenter friend, is building a house. I drop in. He gives me a hammer and says, "Start pounding." I pound; we pound. I look up. "Where's the roof?" "I'm not that far, yet," he says. I go and the days go by and I drop in again. The roof is up and I go and the days go by and I start a poem. I am thinking of stars and I write a poem about stars. I grab a typewriter and start pounding. Soon there are pages, acres of words about stars and the coffee is gone, so I go to a restaurant. And I buy a beer and the woman next to me tells me how she was raped by her stepfather when she was twelve, so she ran away with an ex-con who got popped again for cocaine and left her pregnant, so she married a GI and moved to Germany, where the baby died of kidney failure, so she came home to live with her mother. And I drink a lot of beers. Then I go outside and lie in a vacant lot looking up at the stars, thinking how many they are and what a wonderful poem they would make. And I fall asleep with a beer in my hand. In the morning, the beer, the stars, and my wallet are gone, so I go to see Gene, and the house is finished. A family is living there, and they show me their dog. There are flowers blooming; cabbage is cooking in the kitchen. So I go home and write another poem. And one day Gene drops in. He looks at the poem and now it is twelve poems, all neatly stacked and ready to be read and he asks, "Where are the stars?" And I say, "I'm not that far yet."

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