Our featured daily participant is small burdens, where the response to Day Two’s Anne-Carson-inspired prompt is brings us an endearing little portrait/ode, and the lovely made-up word “flowersome.”
Today’s daily resource is the online art collection of South Korea’s National Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art. My own art history education is woefully catch-as-catch can, and the little I know of modern art is very much focused on American and European artists. So it was a treat to browse through a collection that is focused almost entirely on modern and contemporary art from outside those areas. I found particular pleasure in looking at Lee Hangsung’s prints, including this 1986 print of a poem in French by Katia Granoff.
And now for our (optional) prompt. The American poet Frank O’Hara was an art critic and friend to numerous painters and poets In New York City in the 1950s and 60s. His poems feature a breezy, funny, conversational style. His poem “Why I Am Not a Painter” is pretty characteristic, with actual dialogue and a playfully offhand tone. Following O’Hara, today we challenge you to write a poem that obliquely explains why you are a poet and not some other kind of artist – or, if you think of yourself as more of a musician or painter (or school bus driver or scuba diver or expert on medieval Maltese banking) – explain why you are that and not something else!
Why I Am a Poet and Not a Park Ranger
I could’ve been a park ranger,
but I don’t like to wear hats
and the trees don't answer me when I talk to them.
I tried once, you know—
stood in front of a birch,
asked it how it was doing,
if it needed anything,
but it just stood there, rooted,
looking like it had a million years to think about things
and didn’t feel like sharing any of them with me.
So I became a poet.
I’m much better at listening to things
that don’t speak.
I could have been a sculptor—
but I don’t trust clay.
It’s too soft, like it knows it’s going to be something
but can’t quite decide what.
I tried to shape a face once—
ended up with a blob that looked like
a melted marshmallow on a bad day.
It sat there, glaring at me,
and I couldn’t decide if it was disappointed
or just indifferent.
I could’ve been a chef—
but the kitchen smells too much like work,
and I prefer when my ingredients are sentences,
not onions.
I once tried to make a cake,
but ended up with something more like a question
than dessert.
So I write—
I’m good with words,
better at letting them be messy and soft,
letting them rise without rules.
I could’ve been a librarian,
I do like rules about silence
and I really do like when the dust settles.
Books, though,
I could’ve worked in a bookshop.
Ah, books.
I think I was born in one.
Like the words just folded around me
and I came out blinking.
Books are my map,
my compass,
but in poetry—
the pages are still wet.
The ink spills,
and I get to say,
“See, this is how it feels to live inside a story.”
No dust, just the warmth of the next page.
So instead, I steal a bit of their rhythm
and make them talk back to me,
a poem is like a conversation,
except you don’t need to know how to cook
or use a Dewey decimal system.
I’m a poet because I’m in love with confusion,
with things half-said,
half-finished,
half-forgotten,
and because there’s no need to make them neat—
I can just scribble them out,
and maybe later—
they’ll look like something you can’t quite touch
but will never forget.
So, here I am,
writing about things that can’t be touched,
but need to be known.
A poem has no expiration date,
and you don’t need an oven or a telescope
to make it work.
All you need is a quiet place to sit
and a pen that doesn’t complain.
I can handle that.
- Oizys.