Star Gazing

Poem No. 219

Another, lightly edited re-post this week, as I make my way through this, the busiest time of my year. And there’s some fitting layers to this one, since the original post dealt with the idea of repeating oneself as an artist…

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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 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 another poem I posted previously:

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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 felt a twinge of embarrassment posting this poem, since it bears such a strong similarity to that other, previously posted 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.

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.

Were I more resistant to repetition I wouldn’t have even written some of my 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, or if a vein of art leads all the way to the heart of the mountain.

Thanks for reading. I hope my poem this week finds you well, and gazing up at the stars,
~ A

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