The Practice
A poem about discipline and discovery
My roots are the morning ritual,
cursor blinking on the screen,
the same desk where I've worn a groove
into the silence before dawn.
They are repetition without discussion,
line breaks applied until the rhythm holds
what my mind has forgotten,
the blank page I return to
even when the words never come.
My roots are failure,
the poems I've buried in drawers,
the submissions rejected,
the drafts that taught me more than any publication
about what I'm actually trying to say.
They are the poets who saw something
I couldn't yet see,
their voices in my head saying
again, sharper, pay attention, cut.
But branches are the days I break form,
write toward the unfamiliar subject,
use the wrong meter and discover
it was right all along for what I needed to say.
They are reading with strangers,
forms I was told I shouldn't touch,
the moment I stop imitating
and start listening to my own voice.
My branches reach toward risk,
toward the poem that might fail spectacularly,
toward the question of what if I'm capable
of a line I haven't imagined yet?
The roots say, show up. Write the poem.
The branches say, now forget everything and sing.
I need both voices.
I trust both voices.
They are the same voice.
About the Creator
Tim Carmichael
Tim is an Appalachian poet and cookbook author. He writes about rural life, family, and the places he grew up around. His poetry and essays have appeared in Bloodroot and Coal Dust, his latest book.
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Comments (4)
I love how it captures the tension between craft and creativity, grounding and growth. That final line ties everything together beautifully.
Wonderfully worded! Feels very much of a piece with your essay in Writers
The roots and the branches are both the same. Now, this is surely one I will sit with, Tim. Thanks for writing this poem. Also, your image is absolutely astounding. So much to really look at, if one takes the time.😊
A beautiful tribute to the craft. Writing is the truest mirror of the inner self. 👏👏💖