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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

On Being an Artist

Noelle Kocot

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.

Copyright @ 2014 by Noelle Kocot. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-a-Day on May 16, 2014.

Noelle Kocot

Noelle Kocot

Noelle Kocot is the author of Soul in Space (Wave Books, 2013). She teaches at The New School and lives in New Jersey.

by this poet

poem

The alpha You. The omega You.
My grandmother’s ghost, its girlish snafu
Basking in the waters of urgency.

But I want the coolness of snow.
I want pairs of hands that speak to me cleanly,
Sutras to resuscitate what reigns

Over warped celluloid and heirlooms I can’t touch.
There

poem
"You" have transformed into "my loss."
The nettles in your vanished hair
Restore the absolute truth
Of warring animals without a haven.
I know, I'm as pathetic as a railroad
Without tracks.  In June, I eat
The lonesome berries from the branches.
What can I say, except the forecast
Never changes.  I sleep without
poem

Our ancestors in the earth are not
Ashamed of us. The strong smell
Of dirt, the delirious rabbits, the
Clocks are all disappearing. A

Prehistoric gift acquires the smell
Of salt. I grasp onto winter’s tail. 
Some water plants are lying around.
Smell & taste, I have had good