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About this Poem 

“This poem came from a very deep place where I was at a crossroads about whether or not I should continue making poetry or switch to writing more philosophical writing. I chose poetry because I love it, and it is a gift to be an artist, and I realized I would never want to abandon it. There is so much left to do! I really believe the poetry of the future will be one of deep and abiding joy, and I would love to be a part of this.”

—Noelle Kocot

On Being an Artist

Noelle Kocot

Saturn seems habitual,
The way it rages in the sky
When we're not looking.
On this note, the trees still sing
To me, and I long for this
Mottled world. Patterns
Of the lamplight on this leather,
The sun, listening.
My brother, my sister,
I was born to tell you certain
Things, even if no one
Really listens. Give it back
To me, as the bird takes up
The whole sky, ruined with
Nightfall. If I can remember
The words in the storm,
I will be well enough to sit
Here with you a little while.

Copyright @ 2014 by Noelle Kocot. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-a-Day on May 16, 2014.

Copyright @ 2014 by Noelle Kocot. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-a-Day on May 16, 2014.

Noelle Kocot

by this poet

poem
Someone inside says, "Get busy."
But I've got appointments to keep,
I have an abstemious love of equations calculated quickly
While the tepid day melts into design.

And the high cheekbones of the beautiful life
Bear the loose look of a calendar by lamplight.
I search for patterns in everything.
I am tied in
poem
It's the fern beyond the wind, the classic
Eruptions.  Night is a funnel that is overcome.
Violence of signs beyond the pale. Stasis
Has its own way, the hard work, the violence. 
Convalesce, convalesce in the green green
World, in which you could hardly walk,
But that was before, before life set its rhythms
In
poem
"You" have transformed into "my loss."
The nettles in your vanished hair
Restore the absolute truth
Of warring animals without a haven.
I know, I'm as pathetic as a railroad
Without tracks.  In June, I eat
The lonesome berries from the branches.
What can I say, except the forecast
Never changes.  I sleep without