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EVERY POEM STARTS WITH A SEED
Sasha Stiles
, 2023
— on Proof
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Every poem starts with a seed
you hold in your hands
like a small red bird.
A single word is enough,
sometimes,
to prove a single word is not enough.
Sometimes it’s all you have.
Wing it and see
how it flies.
It’s not up to me
to decide where we land.
Every poem starts with a tiny thing
that instills the need
to create, express,
ends with a surprise.
Nature is so wise.
Germinate.
You know what to do
with a word like that.
I mean,
you must know what to do
with a word like that –
hard-shelled kernel of language,
the one you’ve buried
sure it’s dead and gone.
so deep in your chest
you’re sure it won’t ever sprout,
I know there are times
when you don’t even know what it means
to care for something so tender,
so you say nothing,
Nurture it with breath,
leaf through the dictionary.
But you know what to do:
plant it on your tongue.
nourish it with tears.
Water it with sweat when you dream,
shade it from dawn each morning.
Wait for years.
Roots will anchor themselves to your heart.
Someday you’ll hear petals unfurl:
without warning, without sun or soil,
a poem
will push through your ribs
into the air.
You’ll forget how small your hands are.
How small and fragile your hands are.
Hold my hand –
the most important part
of any metaphor.
and fragile and sharp as thorns.
Life is light
Sometimes I wonder
what words are for
if not to break open and blossom
into thousands of moments.
So big with history,
just longing for the right conditions
A thought begins wilting
to bloom and bear fruit,
which is why you must keep planting
poem seeds.
Without poetry,
a thought would not become
more than that thought.
the moment it’s born.
Sometimes one moment is enough.
Without poetry, we’d be stuck,
a constant state of wanting.
Nothing creates itself.
pick it up. Adore it
like a noun, a verb, an adjective.
A tree can’t rise without sunshine.
No river flows without snowmelt.
If you find a little pinecone on the street,
It will grow until you know
what it is to be a mother.
A poet’s job is to keep a poem safe
from everything that might cause harm.
Otherwise, this poem is nothing.
Otherwise, this poem is just words on paper —
invisible, impossible.
A poem’s safe in your mouth, invincible,
silent the way stars are silent,
silent the way the moon is silent.
One sound after another,
one shape after another:
husk, curl, bud.
The right rhythm
to sprout wings and leave.
I felt a rhythm in my bones, once,
ode to a limbic system…
My favorite poem to write is a blank page
when I don’t know what to say.
Tell me,
what are you working on now?
Tell me the truth:
what now?
What starts is bound to end
