Not the Stuff of Poetry - July 23 2026

 

Not the Stuff of Poetry

July 23 2026

I did nothing today.

Some reading, puttering, a desultory walk.

A sandwich was made

the dogs fed.

But no clock was watched

phone scrolled.

The day passed

more quickly than you’d think;

another one

crossed off the calendar

and forgotten just-like-that.

Wasted, one might sniffly dismiss,

since we’ve all been told

that whatever isn’t quantified

doesn’t count.

This is not the stuff of poetry.

No angst

longing

wonder,

no beauty in the small things

or awe at the divine.

No unrequited love

rejection to nurse

or lover to admire,

nothing to confess

and nothing to aspire to.

No artistry

when what one writes

simply says what it says.

Yet there are times

when you need a day like that,

unscheduled, open-ended

spent all by yourself.

When I didn’t overthink

or explore how I feel,

did not introspect 

retrospect

or worry what comes next.

Didn't stop to notice.

Which is what poets

can’t help but do

  —  noticing.

Smelling the roses, yes,

but also taking in the leaves

and their perfect beads of dew,

lustrous little spheres

like mini-magnifiers.

So we are not so much wordsmiths

as exposed nerves

quivering with all our senses,

receptive to the world

both inside and out.

But instead, I just let go.

I was a leaf,

circling slowly down

to a stop so soft

I didn’t even know.

Content to ride the wind

wherever it goes,

end up

wherever I’m dropped.

A lush green leaf

lying untouched

in the dull brown duff of the forest floor.

A fallow day, but hardly wasted. 

Yet I feel days like this need to be justified. So for those keeping count, does getting a poem out of it at least go some way toward redeeming my indolence?

An attentive reader will be amused to see how the poem contradicts itself. Because there’s all kinds of noticing going on. Even when there’s nothing to notice, it not only takes self-referential note, but comes up with a metaphor to embellish it. In my defence, the poem was written after the fact. The day really was pleasantly brain dead! Or at least inasmuch as I can ever stop myself from introspecting, retrospecting, and ruminating.