It's really a lovely image, isn't it:
The Lone Poetess, writing boldly, in tune
A world unto herself, a world in her mind.
I am not her.
I can't build worlds for myself;
I find no peace in poetry, no catharsis.
Poetry for the sake of poetry for the sake of what?
Writing was first developed as a means of communication:
The memo, the account, the tabulation,
The voice of a little girl too shy to speak to strangers,
The voice of a big girl who speaks too much.
Thus, on this day
In the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Sixteen
I, Isobel Shaffer, confess:
I want to entertain, be judged,
Start debates, make people laugh.
So, I write
The Poetess for the sake of the impure masses
And I hear generations of poets rolling in their graves-- oops.
But, I'm not writing for them.
I'm writing for you.