I Am Not…

A poem lightheartedly exploring identity and existence, celebrating the fluidity of thought and the joy of imagination.

Woman with fruit, sculpture by Fernando Botero in Bamberg/Germany | JoachimKohlerBremen

This poem is part of the NaPoWriMo 2025 challenge to write a poem a day in April. This is the prompt for April 7.

A few days ago, we looked at Frank O’Hara’s poem in which he explained why he was not a painter. Jane Yeh’s “Why I Am Not a Sculpture” has a similar sense of playfulness, as she both compares herself to a sculpture and uses a series of rather silly and elaborate similes, along with references to dubious historical “facts.” Today, we challenge you to write a similar kind of self-portrait poem, in which you explain why you are not a particular piece of art (a symphony, a figurine, a ballet, a sonnet), use at least one outlandish comparison, and a strange (and maybe not actually real) fact.

I am not a Botero painting,  
for I am not a plump lady  
with arms like tree trunks
nor a visage that blooms like a ripe peach,  
sitting in a sunlit plaza,  
gathering the gazes of passersby.  

Instead, I am a wisp of smoke,  
dancing between the cracks of reality,  
a thought that slips through the fingers  
like sand in an hourglass.  

Imagine a world where armchairs are made of jelly,  
and every time you sit,  
the room giggles,  
as if it knows humorous secrets  
too deep for mere mortals to comprehend.  

I am not a Botero painting,  
because I don’t have the weight of history  
anchoring me to the canvas,  
like a ship that refuses to sail,  
even on the most tempestuous seas.  

Did you know that in a hidden corner of the universe,  
there exists a species of turtles  
that can recite Shakespeare backward?  
It’s true, or so I read in a dream  
that felt all too real,  
where thoughts wore spectacles  
and danced on the edges of reason.  

No, I am not a Botero painting,  
not confined to the whims of proportions,  
but a gust of wind,  
a fleeting moment,  
an echo of what could be,  
tumbling through a world  
where jelly chairs and scholarly turtles  
are the fabric of existence.

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