Wordsmith

A poem celebrating the thrill of crafting lines and phrases.

This poem is part of the NaPoWriMo 2025 challenge to write a poem a day in April. This is the prompt for April 3.

The American poet Frank O’Hara was an art critic and friend to numerous painters and poets In New York City in the 1950s and 60s. His poems feature a breezy, funny, conversational style. His poem “Why I Am Not a Painter” is pretty characteristic, with actual dialogue and a playfully offhand tone. Following O’Hara, today we challenge you to write a poem that obliquely explains why you are a poet and not some other kind of artist – or, if you think of yourself as more of a musician or painter (or school bus driver or scuba diver or expert on medieval Maltese banking) – explain why you are that and not something else!

I find myself in a café,  
the hum of chatter swirling,  
steam rising from cups,  
and I am here with my pen,  
a small wand to conjure worlds.  
The artist beside me  
dabs at a canvas,  
brush gliding like a dancer.

“Hey, what’s with all the scribbling?”  
I glance up from my coffee,   
“Just capturing moments, you know?”  
The painter beside me chuckles,  
“Moments? I do that with 
my mix of colors!”  
But I shake my head,  
“Not me, my friend, 
I’m all about mixing words.”  

“Why not paint?” they ask,  
as they dab at their canvas,  
“Too messy,” I reply with a grin,  
“Paint splatters like bird poop.”  
“Okay, then what’s your medium?”  
“Words, my dear, words—  
they float, they flutter,  
no need for brushes or mess.”  

“Sounds too easy,” they tease,  
“Yeah, but I mold feelings
through my texts—
shaping them into lines 
that curve and stretch,  
each one a breath,  
a heartbeat on the page.
I like the thrill of 
forming a poetic line,  
a twist of phrase,  
that fires the imagination.”

They nod, still swiping strokes,  
but I can’t help but smile,  
“Words are my paint,  
each one a splash of life.”  
“Okay, I get it,”  they sigh, 
“you’re a wordsmith,  
not a color mixer.”  
“Exactly! I’m here to play,  
let the moments speak,
the words to spill.”  

I am not a painter;  
my palette is the world,  
where moments collide,  
not to be framed,  
but to be released;
to live, shimmer,  
on a collection of pages,
capturing life in its fleeting dance.

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