If a Poem Falls in the Middle of an Empty Forest, Does It Still Make a Sound?

by Jennifer E. Donnell

The great thing about being a poet, is that I can do absolutely nothing, and my status as a writer will remain intact. I’m a poet for the writing I am writing, have written, and might write again. I feel no less a writer on the days when I gel into the routine of living without noticing words at all, than on my most prolific. If I spend a day organizing laundry (okay, let’s be honest here, when do I ever do laundry?!), reading a book about the Enneagram, hanging out at the park, or eating cinnamon rolls…. whatever I do or don’t do, it is all a potential stimuli for my current or future writings. Being a freelance writer is freedom, as the only one who will ever say what I have to, need to, or want to say.... is “me”.

Perhaps any specific thought had on a day of gluttonous cinnamon roll consumption won’t manifest into my writing for five years, or two months, or ...ever —yet each and every action or inaction (each expressed or repressed thought, feeling, or behavior that I do, say, have or feel), seasons and affects all that I do, and say.

Two days ago, I wrote a poem about when I was six. I had to live the last twenty something years, before I was able to explain what I felt at that young age. Writing it so much later in no way decreased my passion for my poetic storytelling. I had to learn and grow and process before I could fully explain what I felt at the age of six.

Ever been to a nightclub? (Of course you have.) Well, a common greeting to hear when amongst strangers, drinkers, or soon to be friends is, ”So, what do you doooo?” Upon which, you, listener, should woo the person asking with tales of your great career path and its fruitful financial gains! Unsurprisingly, I fail miserably at this-—if I answer that I’m a writer, the follow-up question is typically, “What do you write?” The only honest answer I could give is, “What don’t I write,” which sounds unintentionally coy. If I was to admit that I’m a poet, the aftermath would be worse. I would have to defend why I don’t try and publish much of my work. I would confuse most anyone when I explained that what I do or don’t publish is of little consequence to me. What matters to me is that I put my effort, thought, and intention into each published or unpublished piece. Perhaps you will now be more forgiving, reader, when you hear that (in bars) I have sometimes lied that I’m a teacher. (Justifying: Don’t we all teach someone, something, somewhere…someday?)

This is not to say that many poets don’t also have great alternative careers; many do, but aren’t we as writers, just a little bit more connected to our writing, than our paycheck? I thought of this nightclub phenomenon earlier today when “friending” a new poet-friend on Facebook. As we began to talk, his “What do you do”, comment gave me a surprise left hook. ”Not you too!” I internally bemoaned. Only he didn’t ask what I do for a living, instead he asked where I read, who I know, where I’m published…and so on and so forth. I wanted to lie and say, “Well, I’m a teacher…”, but this wouldn’t have answered his question.

Then, I wanted to explain that (for me), what I have done publication- and reading-wise (and more often haven’t done), isn’t a measure of my worth or skill. When asked questions like the above, the set-up is clear—one should respond with a list of impressive successes! I should have sold a few dozen copies of a chapbook at the very least! I should have driven to that reading where the really “cool kids” go.

But I didn’t, or sometimes I did, but other times I stayed home—where, more than likely, I was working hard at a poem which might never leave my computer. I was busy storing up inspiration like a squirrel stores acorns (or is that a myth?). I was reading my book about the Enneagram, eating my cinnamon bun, dancing around my kitchen until I realized a neighbor was looking…. I was just being “me”.

The moment we become writers, specifically poets, out of a desire to be “heard”, I think we lose a little something in the process. To really resonate with our gift, shouldn’t our main audience be that still small voice inside, our gut, our creative inspiration. Shouldn’t we write for ourselves first, and not need approval to feel good?

As I said, I have files filled with rarely seen writing—but in no way does this mean it doesn’t have worth…(I have a lot of work I’m proud of). I have no aversion to one day publishing it; I didn’t “need to”. With this I feel free because although admiration is nice, isn’t poetry is a secretly “lone” activity?

Although, if I’d tried to have more work published and attend readings more regularly, I might have a more impressive comeback when asked, “what I do”. Until then, I will believe that value is in the doing, not merely in explaining why.

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