Hello, Do you have poems about the reason why a writer or poet writes?:c
It took me a long time to realise there are two kinds of writing; the one you write and the one that writes you. The one that writes you is dangerous. You go where you don’t want to go. You look where you don’t want to look.
Jeanette Winterson, Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?
Richard Hugo, Essay on Poetic Theory: The Triggering Town
Writing is how I attempt to repair myself, stitching back former selves, sentences. When I am brave enough I am never brave enough I unravel the tapestry of my life, my childhood.
Kate Zambreno, from Book of Mutter
Rebecca Lindenberg, Interview in The Believer | March 27 2012
Now the tiredness. Writing is also an attempt to ward off the cold.
Christa Wolf, Cassandra: A Novel and Four Essays (tr. Jan van Heurck)
I am writing to reach you—even if each word I put down is one word further from where you are.
Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous
I’m still not sure. I still don’t know why I’m writing to you. Perhaps I’m not writing to you as much as I’m writing to the part of my past tied to you.
Elisabeth Rynell, from To Mervas
You know how I count on you; on your wisdom and loyalty. I am writing you because I want to see for myself; I am writing to myself through you.
Martha Gellhorn, from Selected Letters
Jeanette Winterson, Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?
I write because I am desperate and I'm tired, I can no longer bear the routine of being me and if not for the always novelty that is writing, I would die symbolically every day.
Clarice Lispector, from The Hour of the Star (tr. Benjamin Moser)
Writing as a way not to remember but to forget. Or if not to forget, to attempt to leave behind.
Kate Zambreno, from Book of Mutter
To leave the world of objects and enter the world of words was to return to the site of acquired grief.
Anne Boyer, How To Go From Poetry To Art
But sometimes words are the only hands / we have to touch a bruised memory / or cleanse a wound that never healed / or lift a body we carried for years / at last to the pyre of shared grief.
Fred Dings, from Eulogy for a Private Man; “Words”
I sat on a gray stone bench / ringed with the ingenue faces / of pink and white impatiens / and placed my grief / in the mouth of language, / the only thing that would grieve with me.
Lisel Mueller, from Alive Together; “When I Am Asked”
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