A man writes a poem, or a woman does, those are the only two ways a poem gets written.

You can argue with me about the nature of poetry and whether a sweet maple tree, red leafed and dancing on an october wind, is a poem, but if it is, it will remain unwritten until a man or a woman write it.

Personally, I believe that usually the question of a poem’s creation is far less interesting than the question of its reason. Why does that poem exist? Was it considered and crafted? Was it spewed unbidden and irrational from the gut? Was it for someone or against someone? What was the purpose intended by the poet?

Not all poetry has a purpose. Not all poets know what the purpose of their poem is when they write it.  Not all poems mean anything, and that isn’t necessarily good or bad. But I do try to have a purpose when I write. I try to mean something. I try to say something. I try to craft something.

It’s not the only way. It’s not the only good way. It’s not the only reason to write poetry.

But it is my way.

At this very moment, right now as I write this, thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions of people are writing their own poems. They are sitting down with paper and pen, or at a keyboard and tapping out their thoughts to record them.  Of all of those thousands of words, thousands of ideas, millions of ideas, millions of words, only a comparative few will be shared with a wide audience. Most will be read by a few people, then lost. Some will be read only by the writer, and others will just hang in the ether to be occasionally gawked at by those smart enough to recognize what they mean.

That’s the nature of writing – and poetry especially – it is always highly unlikely that anyone will actually see it, and if they do, it’s just as unlikely they’ll care about what they’ve read. The saddest part of this is that ultimately the point of writing is to be read and understood and have the thoughts shared cared about. A writer writes to inflict his (or her) ego upon the reader.  It is the minor fascism of ideas shared that drives us, one and all, to communicate with the people around us.

So, this is the why behind my poetry. The why, it seems to me, is more important than the how of it. Anyone can write a poem. Anyone can share the poem. It is a very cheap activity, so the question becomes not can I, but why should I?