Jon M. Obermeyer's Blog
February 11, 2018
The Poet is Half Introvert
The poet walks the earth in relative obscurity. You might see him surface briefly at an open microphone event or at a workshop, but for the most part he stays in his burrow.
His bosses love him. He writes elegant copy and sticks to his knitting. You hardly know he’s there in his cubicle.
His wife and his kids worry about him. His doctor would like to see him out walking more often, hills especially.
But he’s happiest on a rainy, Saturday morning, when the traffic is lighter on the road, and few of his neighbors are stirring. He doesn’t like the sound of a leaf blower or someone repairing a dirt bike, though he’s fine with a lawnmower and band saw.
The poet is happiest with the simplest of things: sourdough toast and apricot jam, an etymology dictionary, and a biography of Josef Stalin (also a poet, in his younger pre-purge days).
He’s interested and intrigued (and amused) by just about anything lying around: last month’s light bill (especially the four-color chart explaining hot water usage), the Thai menu (with typos) at lunch, or an old airplane boarding pass. His ADD serves him well.
The poet is only half introvert. He reaches out to every parcel of the planet. Everything is subject to him (he delights in double meaning).
Everything is fair game: Ebola ambulance drivers, hooligans at a Premiere League football match, Polish refugees, linotype operators, panhandlers, rookie pitchers at spring training, theoretical physicists, circus aerialists, pile drivers and ecologists.
The poet is billionaire and bugler, voyeur and king. Today he might choose to write about anything.
His bosses love him. He writes elegant copy and sticks to his knitting. You hardly know he’s there in his cubicle.
His wife and his kids worry about him. His doctor would like to see him out walking more often, hills especially.
But he’s happiest on a rainy, Saturday morning, when the traffic is lighter on the road, and few of his neighbors are stirring. He doesn’t like the sound of a leaf blower or someone repairing a dirt bike, though he’s fine with a lawnmower and band saw.
The poet is happiest with the simplest of things: sourdough toast and apricot jam, an etymology dictionary, and a biography of Josef Stalin (also a poet, in his younger pre-purge days).
He’s interested and intrigued (and amused) by just about anything lying around: last month’s light bill (especially the four-color chart explaining hot water usage), the Thai menu (with typos) at lunch, or an old airplane boarding pass. His ADD serves him well.
The poet is only half introvert. He reaches out to every parcel of the planet. Everything is subject to him (he delights in double meaning).
Everything is fair game: Ebola ambulance drivers, hooligans at a Premiere League football match, Polish refugees, linotype operators, panhandlers, rookie pitchers at spring training, theoretical physicists, circus aerialists, pile drivers and ecologists.
The poet is billionaire and bugler, voyeur and king. Today he might choose to write about anything.
