Peeling back the curtain, I reveal that I stayed up until three in the morning writing the poem below. I thought this would be a little bit scandalous, seeing as basically the premise of this periodical was to publish a poem every Sunday written on the Sunday, but on further consideration, three in the morningwas in fact today so I guess I can cling to my innocence. Sometimes it’s enough to feel like you might be guilty to feel that you’ve commited a crime.
Much of art-making does feel like getting away with something: “someone’s paying me to do this?” And so we pull our teeth out in an effort to justify the names we call ourselves. Is most of being a creative person trying to justify our right to create, discounting the actual labour - often unpaid or underpaid - which does go into making art. I can’t imagine the situation in which I might stay up until three in the morning to finish something for any other reason. I guess that counts for something.
Sundays are a good time to think about what you’ve spent the last week doing; what you’ve eaten, what you’ve drunk, what you’ve seen, where you’ve been; we are what we do. So please, sit down and reflect with me. In my experience a poem sometimes helps the mind to slip into a contemplative state. Get in a comfortable chair, or sit on a cushion on the floor perhaps, and read with me. As always, I’m here if you need to talk.
and i think about the sun.
when am i not thinking about the sun?
i mean the moon,
when i’m tired enough i get the two confused:
i was out for a walk at 1am the other evening
and i said to my friend look at the sun
it is beautiful tonight
and they shook their head at me.
we pull out our tongues,
we pull out our teeth:
we are what we remove.
This post was originally written on December 6, 2015 for Latitude 53, while I was their Writer in Residence.