On Being an Artist

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.

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