On Being Asked Why I Write Poetry

If I don't write things down I won't remember them
and I can't keep a diary.
A diary is an argument you loose with yourself.
I loose arguments witheveryone else
but you've got to draw the line somewhere.
Memories are dry, brittle snakeskins,
I have to put the snakes back inside.
When I wrote letters I didn't want to let them go.
Poetry is the only time I listen when I talk,
The rest of the time I'm just hearding air.
History is a collection of alibis,
old maps where the winds are shown
by puff-cheeked cherubs
and photo albums at garage sales with other people's
families and lost loves.
I don't know if I believe my poems either
but I know they are mine.
And I can only tell you what you already know
but weren't paying attention to at the time.
The print of your body in wet grass
'til next year's grass remembers.
The patterns on the plate you smashed
when you were quarreling.
A phone rining in a booth you passed
at night in a bad part of town.
I'm rining it again.
Is anyone home?




Julia Vinograd