I Live Next Door to a Poet

a poem about, well, living next door to a poet. But first, some existential angst.

I just returned from a journey through England and Scotland.

I stood on the spot Anne Boleyn was beheaded.

I walked through rooms built by William the Conquerer.

I looked out windows Jane Austen gazed through.

I stood beside Tolkien’s grave, pondering the love story between him and his real-life Luthien.

I walked sunlit footpaths in the Yorkshire Dales following the steps of James Herriot.

I gazed out over Edinburgh from Arthur’s Seat, pondering the ancient thrones of men built upon still-more-ancient volcanoes.

I hiked the Quiraing, a stunning series of jutting cliffs, pinnacles, and grassy craters, in Scotland’s Isle of Skye.

I stood, buffeted by other elbowing tourists, before paintings touched by the brushes of masters, long dead.

Now I’m home, and I’m keenly aware my flowerbeds need weeding.

Traveling has the remarkable effect of filling one’s cup. With beauty. With stories. With broader perspective. I love the broader perspective. I do, really.

But let’s be honest. When I’m mouth-breathing through the grimy window of a pub, trying to catch a glimpse of the table where giants like Tolkien and Lewis shared a pint, or when I’m leaning in as close as I dare to examine the individual brushstrokes of Caravaggio, there must exist an acknowledgement of, a grappling with, my own proportional smallness.

Am I inspired to attempt great works, to “sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world”?

Or is my soul crushed by the weight of my well-documented mediocrity?

I don’t know. But I do know those flowerbeds aren’t going to weed themselves.

I wrote the following poem a couple years back when we first moved to Nashville, and we did indeed live next door to a prolific poet.

One of my favorite parts of this poem, included in the original draft but subsequently edited out, is a line about the brand of yogurt this neighbor seemed to enjoy. You see, our recycle bins were next to each other in the back alley. So this knowledge is less stalker-y than it sounds. Even so, no one, including myself, wants to acknowledge such close observation. We’d like to continue living our lives, blithely believing no one pays attention to these sorts of things.

Yoplait. It was Yoplait yogurt.

And now for the poem.

I Live Next Door to a Poet

I live next door to a poet.

His house is stately white brick. Presumably, his words built it.

Often, in the mornings, I’ll see the poet sitting barefoot on his porch.

He watches the cardinals, sparrows, and mourning doves pecking at seed which spills from the feeder hanging in his yard.

I wonder if his mind is as busy, as industrious, as those birds. Are the words he is seeking scattered about, waiting to be gathered up like stray seed?

Does he pick them up one by one? Do they leave him still hungry, ceaselessly pecking?

When you live next door to a poet, you wonder about these things.

Often, in the afternoons, I’ll see the poet straddling the seat of his bike. When I watch him take that first, awkward, peddling lunge, I wonder, does he experience gravity differently than me?

Does it have a more tenuous grip on him, allowing him to tread the earth more lightly? Or are his steps just as heavy somedays as mine?

Is that why he sits watching the birds jostle and peck— to be reminded of what it is to fly?