A poem is silent when printed on a page. It doesn’t show annoying habits, tiresome preferences nor does it dwell on its embarrassing moments or complain about its roughed-up feelings. It only shows that it wrote itself. The hand that held the pencil arranged a concentration, bent circumstance to find the spare time, noted ideas, receded to an invisible role, and afterward returned with relish to their/her/his vices. A poem remains on the page and doesn’t blink or redact. It doesn’t wish for other goals then return to the page, begging for attention. A poem waits for the poet to die, as does the inspiration when the poem ends, and functions only as a marker showing that someone walked this path, who lived, and said each poem is my epitaph.
Lawrence Bridges’ poetry has appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry, and The Tampa Review. He has published three volumes of poetry: Horses on Drums (Red Hen Press, 2006), Flip Days (Red Hen Press, 2009), and Brownwood (Tupelo Press, 2016). You can find him on IG: @larrybridges
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