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Life Writing

jrlewis's picture

“What do you know?”

said the sister to the writer.

“A writer is a little island, a summer land, 

what is a writer in winter?”

“What was I, when I was your age?”

I was torn.”


“Who are you, when you are not writing?  

You are the listener, the reader, the other.”

“A writer is only one who writes.  

Who I am, when I am not writing?”

“What does it mean to be a mature writer?

You should learn there are no mistakes only poems.”

“When I am writing, I am talking to you,

who are you?”

“When you are not writing, you are talking to me.

Who am I?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I am still torn; bitterness is also basic to us.”

“Well yes, we are twin cultures, where a poem

can be a puzzle, like a chemistry problem.”

“Either is interplay between the part

 and the whole, the world is chemistry and poetry.”

“What part does poetry play in the world?”

“That is what you must know, and not know always.”

“Let me tell you a story, 

I know, every series must come to an end.” 

“Writing has taken you over to Nantucket Island, 

and to Iowa, and to England.”

“Is the act of admiring beauty so selfish?”

asked the sister of the chemist.