The following is a reactionary riff on Cid Corman’s poem, “It isnt for want”. 

This doesnt require
a someone to hear—
someone to listen—

someone, to be known—
but to transport me—
relic that moment—

feeling my Self there
as long as I’m here—
as long as I’m here.

Though I enjoyed Corman’s poem, I do not relate to poetry the way that he relates to poetry in this poem. Perhaps that is what I enjoyed most about it: how poetry can serve such different purposes for different people (or at different stages in life, maybe). I have never had an urge to write poetry in order to create space for an encounter between the poet and the reader/listener. Poems, for me, exist at the intersection of existential angst, nostalgia, and obsessive thinking. My poems have mostly resulted from a compulsions to capture a moment in time: a thought, scene, or sensation that I’m afraid will wither away from my memory. They are time capsules to embalm memories for myself. They are content focused, and reader-agnostic. 

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