Reflections on Writing

I admit, in China, as a poet, I have been a failure thus far. How many poems have I written since May? Two. A whopping two poems. That’s all, folks. However, I feel the need to justify myself. Sometimes you need a break from one medium. It seems as though my writing has morphed into a catalogue of various subgenres. I am now no longer just “poet,” but “writer.” It has been ages since I’ve written prose that didn’t immediately trigger my gag reflex. While I don’t consider this blog of particularly publishable quality, I will say that it has been worthwhile to write and I’ve felt productive.

Am I just making excuses? Maybe I am. For some reason, I haven’t felt particularly inspired to write poetry lately. In the past, I’ve gone through phases, which I’m sure each poet does. It went something like this: In high school I began with trite love poems; in college I moved toward the dark and mysterious; in between my undergraduate and graduate experiences, I sporadically dipped into a bit of pastoral and transcendental work; then in my MFA I actually began to develop an aesthetic taste.

During my two years in the MFA, I learned an important lesson: poetry doesn’t always have to be pretty. The ugly can be beautiful, too. After all, can’t the gross make us laugh? So, today when I was trying to work out why I hadn’t felt like writing poetry in the past few months, I immediately copped out. But now I see the error of my ways. I am guilty, by reason of temporary insanity.

Yes, I should be writing more poetry. I should be grinding pen into paper every vile smell, odorous armpit, mangled fingernail, and hacking loogie. I should be writing that poem titled “Asian Holes,” or asking why so many Chinese walk backwards on the sidewalks. I should catalogue bargains and barters, or keep count of how many locals ask to take my photograph.

Even through inadequacy and feeling unimpressive, I still have the desire to create poems. It’s there. I feel the urge every day. Then I disappoint myself and the cycle of unrest continues. Today, however, I am breaking that cycle:

He toes the section of sidewalk
designed for keeping blind men on track.
It is uneven beneath his feet;
his instep has gotten used to the rough
and worn a callous.
The scarf around his neck
gestures a summons, the frayed ends
curling upward in a humid breeze;
but he needs no help. After all these years
he still thinks he can see.
The scents of piss and stale gardens,
feeling the city walk past him,
he doesn’t need to be told it is Thursday.