I never set out to be a poet.
This was not a path I chose
it was the one I stumbled into
when my thoughts grew too heavy to carry
and my soul began to collect
the weight of years
like seabirds nesting on a lonely island,
like fur seals waiting out the endless storm.
I began writing as an escape,
a quiet place to spill the thoughts
that rattled in my head and ached in my heart.
Over time, it became my shelter
though no shelter is without its storms.
There are always those
who find reason to rain on your parade.
In the beginning, I was alone here.
And I was fine with that
for my thoughts were mine,
untouched, unshaped by anyone else.
But now, I am blessed
to hear the voices of strangers
who pause to read my words,
who leave behind their kindness,
their praise,
or simply a silent understanding.
I never wrote for applause
I wrote to build a fire
from the logs that surrounded my life
in a forest full of dead trees.
I wrote to clear the rot,
to drag out the fallen,
and to replant living roots.
I wrote to channel out new streams
from the clogged, muddy banks of my mind,
to let fresh waters flow
that in time will turn into flowing rivers
where once only stillness and decay remained.
Poetry became the soil where I planted
what I thought I had lost
feeling, connection, the fragile spark of hope.
And the people who read my words,
you who live in this realm of care and thought,
have given me more than I ever expected.
For as you read what I mine,
I read what is yours.
And sometimes I nod toward the sun and say,
See? I am not alone.
In your poems, I find echoes of my own wounds,
and in my own, some of you
find the reflection of your silent battles.
It is a strange comfort
like feeling the warmth of summer
brush against our skin
while snow still falls around us.
Poetry has allowed me to feel again
after years of neglect,
both from others and, far worse, from myself.
It is one thing to be locked in a room
and know you are trapped
it is another to walk the open world
and feel nothing at all.
We poets, I think,
often come to this land empty-handed.
We bring only the weight of our journeys
scars, rejections, brokenness,
the long nights of feeling worthless or unseen.
We come from the unknown to the unknown,
but somehow, we find each other here.
And in that meeting,
poetry gives us something
greater than gold or silver
it gives us belonging.
It gives us the chance to be understood,
if only for a heartbeat.
The path of a poet is not an easy one.
It begins with a few words,
or a flood of many,
that seem to mean little at first.
But as we walk in the shade of each other,
and in the sunlight of those who came before us,
we grow into something greater than ourselves.
I know I will not live forever
but I hope my words do.
I hope they find their way into the hands
of someone who needs them,
long after I am gone.
That, to me, is enough.
12 August 2025
Why I Write Poetry
Copyright Malcolm Gladwin
