Paper Trail

March 3 2012

You wouldn't think shy people

make an impression

leave their mark.

But this is the paradox of the shy,

who keep to themselves

and their intimate circle.

Who firmly shut the door

on an agitated world

and interact by the written word,

settled at a well-used desk

in a pool

of incandescent light.

Sending off

scribbles, missives, epistles,

penning memos, letters

encyclicals.

RSVPs

begging forgiveness,

formal notes

that decline, and defer.

Pushed out under the door,

appearing unannounced.

A paper trail

for historians to navigate,

a treasure map

for future biographers.

Rough drafts of themselves,

anatomically imperfect

but workable.

Like instructions

translated to English from Chinese,

full of amusing errors

and unintended ironies,

one can’t help but forgive.

We introverts are good

at living in our heads,

which are prudently kept

well below the parapets.

We prefer stillness, and quiet,

the beating heart of solitude

all that’s keeping time.

We are hard-wired, we say

born this way.

Popped out into a world

that was too cold and bright,

scrunching up our eyes

wailing unselfconsciously,

barely consoled

by our tears’ salty warmth.

Or wide-eyed

and preternaturally quiet,

already collecting impressions

making poems in our heads.

Which we will someday retrieve

when there’s time enough to think;

and the world

is ready to listen.

I elected to use "shy" instead of "introvert" in the opening stanza. I prefer the sound. I prefer the emotional power of a word that is more visceral over one that seems more analytical and detached. But they actually mean quite different things, and my intent is a lot closer to "introvert" than "shy"

Because shyness is a fear of social judgement. While introversion is what I've talked about in the poem:  a preference for a lower level of sensory stimulation.  This could be an intimate tête-a-tête in place of a cocktail party; or a DVD at home in place of a crowded movie theatre. One can be an introvert, but not at all shy. 

Introverts are not only misunderstood, but easily go unnoticed in a culture that celebrates self-promotion and brash confidence; that is more about personality than character. The poem began with the New Yorker Fiction podcast of a story by Bruno Shulz. He was described as painfully shy; and I appropriated as the central image of the poem the description of him taking refuge in his secluded room, writing compulsively and pushing stories out under the door. Needless to say, I immediately identified with him!