My Poetry is Still in Suburbia Waiting for Me

On a beautiful and quiet afternoon in the great suburbs of Westchester that I hail from, I took a solitary stroll to a simple and secluded pond.

(No, this isn’t Walden. Stop it.)

Anyway, this unassuming walk to the pond had been one of many experiences I grew up with that allowed me to think real thoughts. Family, comforts, and introversion certainly help, but I rediscovered this weekend that the outdoors made all the difference.

The Obscuring

For the past few years, I’ve been in arid and urban locales that suffocate and stifle me. And for the past few years, I haven’t been able to write poetry. I’ve written essays and philosophized, sure, but I haven’t had the words inside me to appreciate beauty and deepen others’ experience of it.

My poetry used to be full of color and metaphor, imagery that went from fantasy in 3rd grade to philosophy in middle and high school, all the while retaining its vividness.

Once responsibilities and transitions really began and I found disciplines to study, the creativity gradually became subdued, and so did my entire personality.

But as I strolled under pristine sunshine and trees and felt the presence of the gentle breeze over the rolling water, as I watched geese bathe and…