For about 10 years, starting in my early 40’s, I didn’t write often. I was busy and happy; starting a growing business, in a strong marriage, and creating a blended family. But I’d also lost my “voice.” I was no longer an angry young man, but wasn’t yet sure what my new poems should be. I wrote occasionally, but the poems never gelled.
I didn’t worry about being fallow. Maybe I’m crazy – when it comes to poetry that isn’t really a question – but I never worried about losing the ability to write. I just wasn’t writing at the moment; I was waiting until I had something to say.
And then came this poem. For a few days, the image of a man holding a fruit he hadn’t tasted since his youth was turning over in my mind. I just stayed with him, let the images build, and then wrote it. I didn’t know where it was going. I didn’t have the last line until it came off my pen.
I recognized immediately that this was a turning point. It was very different from the unfocused work I’d been doing. Of course, it was about me, about aging, about letting go of youth, and that was exactly where I was. But more than that, it was a good poem: tight, but with a lot of room for the reader.
Like many writers, my early work was about putting myself on the page. After this poem, my focus shifted. I became acutely aware of the need to leave room for the reader—to use enough specificity to create moments of recognition, while still leaving space for you to find yourself.
His fingers graze the skin of the fruit
it bursts
full into his hands
He brings the nectar tentatively to his lips
it overwhelms him
as it runs
down his throat
and drips
from his chin
He inhales thoughts
of a time
when this fruit was familiar