WHY DO I WRITE ~ Paul Hostovsky
Why do I write? You know, I often ask myself that same question. Why do I insist on spending so much time thinking about and writing and rewriting the poems? I have been accused of never wanting to DO anything; I have been told to my face that all I ever think about are my stupid clever poems. I think we poets are very annoying people. Picky, picky, picky. If not for the poetry, I don’t think I’d have anything to do with us. I suppose I write because I have to write. To tell you the truth, I’d rather build houses or play the oboe. But I don’t know how to build houses or play the oboe. But I do know how to write poems. So I write them. Because I have always written. Because I’m happiest when I’m writing. Because I’m always thinking of something else, something a little off the point. I’m one of those people you sometimes see sitting alone in restaurants and on trains, mouthing the words to themselves. The words to what? Are they rehearsing or something? Are they crazy? Yes and no. They are in love. In love with the words. The words that live in the mouth. I am making love to the words, with my mouth. If it looks a little
obscene, a little dangerous, well, it probably is. I think it’s even illegal in some places.