⧉ A poetic commute
Welcome to the thirty-fifth issue of OVERLAP ⧉
A poetic commute
Before my office moved downtown, I walked to work. And in 2018, I decided to give myself something to noodle on as I journeyed to and from 22nd Street. I’d think of short poems — syllable-constrained, haiku-style poems — while I walked and publish one every day. I started out by documenting the things I noticed on my commute.
On a morning walk,
I pass by the wolf door and
wonder what’s inside.
Flickering neon
and the tinkle of a bell
as the door opens.
Part puzzle and part observation exercise, it ended up being less about writing and more of a meditation on the details of urban life. I inhaled the buzz of midtown Manhattan and exhaled little snippets of verse.
From the overpass:
stacked layers of buildings, and
a valley of lights.
Sights and smells and sounds —
the sidewalk is an assault
on all the senses.
Inconveniences became material I could use for a poem. Sure, I stepped in a puddle and a bird shat in my hair … but at least I’d have something to write about.
Windows on the ground —
I step on walls of buildings;
now my shoes are wet.
They say it’s good luck
when you’re the chosen target
of a pigeon’s bomb.
In one of my favorite books about writing, Verlyn Klinkenborg advocates for noticing things and developing sentences in your head before writing them down. A small, 17-syllable poem is is easy enough to manipulate without committing anything to paper, and I started to feel the shapes and rhythms of words in a different way.
A river of clouds
flows across the horizon —
same view, changing sky.
Sunset strikes a match —
the canyons between buildings
glow with summer fire.
I look back and wonder if I was a kinder, gentler commuter when I walked. Has the subway turned me into a jaded, cranky New Yorker? Maybe the poetry was more important than the mode of transportation. Was I a better human because I wrote little poems, or did I write little poems because I was a better human?
A knowing glance, shared
with a stranger on the street —
then chaos resumes.
A glimmer of light
on the tracks, a rush of air —
finally, the train.
I didn’t quite reach my goal of writing 100 poems, but I’m thinking about picking up where I left off. If you see a distracted woman on the 4/5/6, staring into space and counting on her fingers, it’s probably me, trying to find some poetry in my daily commute.
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I just returned from TEDMED, and I’m in a post-conference daze. It was such a privilege to hear from epidemiologists and virologists and other healthcare heroes; I’m still processing all the new information. Tomorrow, I’m back to my usual routine … including my regular subway schlep.
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Auntie Jess recommends:
Washing your damn hands. Make the 20-second scrub a hot new wellness trend.
Harold’s Chicken Shack #1. I first encountered Nate Marshall’s poem when he read it on the Sporkful.
ICP’s new location. The International Center of Photography recently moved to the Lower East Side and reopened with a strong slate of exhibits. I especially loved Tyler Mitchell’s photos and the way they’re presented.
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Thanks for reading. I’d love to hear from you — hit reply or send a message through my website to tell me about your favorite commuting rituals, museum exhibits, or anything else that’s on your mind. You can also forward this to a friend or two and invite them to subscribe. If you missed a previous issue, all the archives are online.
Until next time,
Jessica
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