Why Write a Poem?

Editor Louise asked. Here's my answer...poetry at its best serves others

Photo by Julia Joppien on Unsplash

My first poem, I wrote on a dare,
to impress a man – who wasn’t.
A clarinetist who, years later, mentioned idly
that, only recently, had he begun
to take note of the words in stanzas
rather than the arpeggios and ostinatos
spilling upon them.

It probably took another thousand
to discover my poems had become digs –
excavating artifacts to unearth how, how, how
could I have gotten myself into this mess?
Another fifteen hundred arrived next –
necessary sifting
through toxic detritus and deliquesced denial
left in the wake
of escalating waves of firestorms
electrocuting my trunk from heartwood out.
Contracting my soft parts.
Fracturing and fragmenting my bones.
Charring my spirit, blackening the edges
of my soul.

Only when a ring of better angels –
wings webbed from tansy, meadowsweet,
yarrow, and licorice –
whispered over, instructed, soothed,
and anointed me,
did I recall the deal we had struck
the moment my mother’s water broke.
I would write poetry.

I would write poetry to serve others.
Perhaps even – on a good day –
I might help another soul heal.
Poetry paying it forward.

©Jenine Bsharah Baines 2025

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To read

Louise Foerster

’s lovely piece on poetry, click here.

Thank you, Louise. Thank you,

Thomas Gaudex

. Thank you, readers. Love.