I absolutely don’t think of myself as a poet. It’s an almost laughable idea, but sometimes late at night my mind wanders in unexpected ways. Writer, or poet isn’t a job title or an identity you apply for. It’s what happens when something deeper bubbles up in the stillness of the night. I’m trying to pay attention to those brief moments of creativity and that isn’t always an easy task for me.
I’ve been asked from time to time, “how do you find things to photograph, why did you photograph such an ordinary thing and make it stand out and seem apart from that bigger plain thing?”
I always have the same answer to questions like that. “by paying attention”. That however has always been easier said than done in other aspects of my life. The following poem was an example of my paying attention.
The Path
I was young and much afraid.
I never understood myself,
I couldn’t find the words.
I was at the place the path diverged,
while I waited for a sign.
I didn’t know the answer had come from me,
and of course, it never would.
Should I go or should I stay?
Which path would take my doubts away,
and lead me where I long to be?
A mystery it remained to me.
I didn’t know another way; the path was dark,
the night was still. Where that ends was not clear.
Then came a voice—calm and clear:
“Young man, your road lies just ahead.”
There were highs, and there were lows.
There was peace, and there was joy.
I could see the paths I didn’t take,
with voices there, speaking words I couldn’t hear.
Then they called my name.
Their voices echoed in my head,
calling loudest in the stillness.
I resisted and tried not to hear,
but I couldn’t turn away.
I resisted,
but their songs just wouldn’t die.
For a while, the paths ran near—
one step here, and one step there.
Then once again, the paths diverged.
I wondered what might have
been, had I gone right instead of left.
As time went by, I found my voice—
the one not used so long ago.
What’s done is done, that much is true.
Which path meant more—I never knew:
the one that stayed, or slipped from view?
Yet step by step, I walk ahead,
for paths are known by where they lead—
not the things that we let go,
but by the footprints that we leave.
My footprints—left in shifting sand,
a record time may not withstand.
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