Once upon a time I wrote poetry. I did! Published in an actual literary journal and everything. Not just one of those classroom anthologies from school either -a proper literary journal, citable from JSTOR and everything.

I don’t remember when I stopped writing poetry. Probably around the time I got my silly jobby job, and my brain morphed into an interpreter of radioactive energy spectra instead of something that could be still and contemplative. Every time I sit down to read through my Rilke these days, I force myself to be slow. Read every word, take in every line. Not power through scanning lines to put down pages as fast as possible.

While I miss reading poetry, I’m not sure I miss writing it. In school, I chose journalism over creative writing because I like short form and being funny more than I wanted to navigate the complexity of novel writing. Clearly, I am still there, and I enjoy it. With an exhausting and terrible world, I’ll take whatever smiles I can muster.

But contemplating the words of others, I’m tempted. It’s enthralling to have people invested in words you arrange. Surely that’s why all the authors, screen- and songwriters do it. Little building blocks you arrange into big feelings. We write because we feel, and we want others to feel too.

As we enter 2024, I hope to enjoy continue the tradition. Maybe this is the year I decide to stop doom scrolling and open my notes app instead. Maybe this is the year I can be more creative instead of consumptive.

Maybe this is the year I can sit down and reprogram my brain to write poetry.