Star Gazing

Poem No. 219

Sometimes I repeat myself.

I’m not sure when or where I internalized the idea that a “real” artist — poet, painter, etc. — is supposed to be infinitely original, never repeating oneself, always generating something out of nothing, and certainly never mimicking anyone else. But it’s an odd rule, defeated by simple observation. The history of actual art is filled with examples of whole bodies of work — entire lifetimes, even — centered around one or two themes or ideas.

Over time, I’ve come to realize the impulse to infinite originality is quite damaging. It has a smothering effect, because it cuts the artistic fire off from two vital sources of fuel — inspiration and exploration.

Today I want to touch on exploration, because today’s poem explores the same central idea as last week’s poem:

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Star Gazing

This light left those stars 
an eon ago;
we see the fire of their past.

And, because we shine back,
the stars 
witness ours.

So, somewhere in the universe, 
we will always be 
as we are just now —

alive,
holding hands,
looking up at the sky.

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I hesitated to post this today, since it bears such a strong similarity to last week’s poem — they both use the holding of hands to create an image of shared, silent awe at the power of nature, and to symbolize the desire to hold on to loved ones during the tiny slice of infinity we briefly inhabit together. I felt an old twinge of embarrassment at repeating myself.

But over the years I’ve come to appreciate just how important it is, as an artist, to repeatedly explore a theme, an image, or a turn of phrase. To let go the desire to be seen as infinitely original, and instead discover how many different things one idea has to teach me.

And I love what I find in the repetition. I begin to see threads running through my work. My poems start to support one another, saying things not only as individuals, but in concert. They are in conversation with each other, sometimes across decades.

Poetry Nerd Time!!! 🤓

If you’re curious, you can explore what I mean by tracing the threads running through these poems:

• No. 17 — Slow River begins with the line “Hot tea in white mugs…”. I liked that rhythm so much I repeated myself, almost twenty years later, in…

• No. 165 — Spring Melt, which begins “Hot cocoa in paper cups…”. As I mentioned, that poem uses the idea of holding hands to convey wordless intimacy in a moment of shared awe. I borrowed that imagery again for…

• … today’s poem, No. 219. Which, in turn, also borrows the use of fire-as-life-force from another poem (No. 162 — Winter Morning To-do List) and re-explores a common theme for me — experiencing infinite love from within a mortal body (No. 133 — Old Bricks).

Were I more resistant to repetition I wouldn’t have even written some of these poems, let alone shared them publicly. But I’m very glad for what they teach me: It’s almost always fun to find new vistas as an artist, to see what’s over the next unexplored hill. But sometimes it’s rewarding to stay in one spot for a while and keep digging — to see how deep the well goes, to see if a vein of art leads all the way to the heart of the mountain.

Thanks for reading,
~ A

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