At dusk, after washing the dishes, my daughter agrees to go on a walk with me — she is clearly good-humoring me. It’s cold, and I sense she doesn’t care all that much about the gorgeous blue horizon.
Plus, she’s 13. Having once been 13 myself — albeit in the last century — I know 13-year-olds cannot wear hats.
Walking, she asks me why is this necessary? I offer my usual lines — that it’s pleasant to walk in the evening, that a little cold and adversity build character (my dad’s line). I remind her of my amazing wealth of character.
So, she says, you have character because you froze your ass off?
Put that way, I admit that perhaps not all the pieces of my thinking always hinge together perfectly. Or perhaps they do….
Real poetry, is to lead a beautiful life. To live poetry is better than to write it.