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" Published in the April 2014 issue I may have accumulated a hundred books about writing over the years, but I can&amp;#039;t recall the last time I opened one of them. I don&amp;#039;t think of it as writing anymore; neither should you. Just take a pen or open the laptop and write. A poem. Make no mistake: If you turn the page\u2014if you don&amp;#039;t take your shot at writing a poem\u2014I get it. I&amp;#039;ll never bungee jump or hunt. If you feel the same about poetry, or writing, or writing a poem, what can I say but I&amp;#039;m sorry? Pretty much all of us grow up craving poetry, playing with rhyme and rhythm and the sounds of words, fitting them together. Somewhere, somehow, any trace of joy and discovery at the magic of words becomes a passive activity at best. You read; you don&amp;#039;t write. I listen to music; I don&amp;#039;t make it for money. But poetry&amp;#039;s different. Nobody becomes a poet for the money. You have a heart and a soul and a voice on the page. That&amp;#039;s the whole tool kit here. You want to make something that connects you to the poem that has nothing to do with the search for words. Don&amp;#039;t search, just connect\u2014to whatever you&amp;#039;re feeling about whatever you&amp;#039;re seeing in your mind&amp;#039;s eye. Make it a person. Make it someone you love. It&amp;#039;s a fucking poem; why waste it on anger or fear? That stuff is what prose is for. Bub wants the big piece now, no shit. Long muscles and a hard head from his mama&amp;#039;s side. I haven&amp;#039;t seen him naked in years. Fearing my own strength, or the grip my old man had on me, knowing I would loom, knowing that that love is an arena for the boy, a crucible, a cage; knowing my duty, I surrendered early. I&amp;#039;ve never written a poem about my kid. I wrote some when I fell in love with my wife, in 1993. Our lives are our poetry now\u2014I&amp;#039;m serious, or trying to be\u2014and I honestly believe that writing poetry is the hardest work in the arts. You got no dance, no sounds, no colors, not even an image. Nothing but words on a page. I&amp;#039;m in complete awe of that shit. I read the kid Whitman in the womb and Yeats from the age of two. Point is, pick someone you love\u2014someone who connects you to a part of yourself that the framed photo sitting next to your desktop could never in a million years capture or convey. Even out of rage, writing is innately a tender and poetic act. A way to engage, not avoid, what moves you most. But I told the little bastard on a train ride, the Strasburg steam engine, when he was maybe two. We&amp;#039;re alone in the car, the little family, he&amp;#039;s nursing, I mean, he&amp;#039;s working that thing like a speed bag. And the sun is glowing hot through the glass on a cold day, and he&amp;#039;s glowing. And she&amp;#039;s glowing, too. Her breast? Glowing. Bliss. Especially for him. I mean, the kid had a fucking halo. Maybe I had a lump in my throat, but all I recall is the glow and the sun and a certainty that bliss is scarce. I told him then: Don&amp;#039;t peak too young. My boy, don&amp;#039;t peak Too young. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.esquire.com/lifestyle/advice/a27945/write-poem-0414-life-list/>