How Do Poets Do It?

This is a practical question. How do they do it? How do they write the things of the heart and still maintain relationships?  People think things. They draw on all their experiences, good or bad. What if they write something, about someone they love but it isn’t in glowing terms? What if they write about previous loves? What if they write about previous loves in glowing terms? Do they live in the present? Do they live in the past?

Who is this about?
It isn’t about anyone.
Why don’t you write about me?

Who is this about?
No one. <it is.>
Ok. <knowing it is about someone else.>

Who is this about?
You.
Why do you think that about me? Do we need to talk about this?

Who is this about?
Lisa.
Why do you feel that way about her? She broke your heart.

Who is this about?
Mandy.
You wrote this about your dog?

Who is this about?
Beth.
Your sister died. This sounds more like a love poem.

Who is this about?
You.
I don’t want you to feel that way about me.

When I started reading poetry, I reveled in the poets' honesty, their openness on what they felt. I read Keats and I felt his desire for Fanny Brawne. It reached out and took me. His love poetry was real, but his letters were love on paper, substantial and tactile and frantic desire. I read more into the genre and found other examples and then I read the poetry about heartbreak. Did these men and women ever have second thoughts about what their poems and letters might mean to others? Were they entitled to private thoughts made public without judgment?

I don’t know.  I’ve been thinking about this. Do I put my life on display? Do I tell people all that I feel and face rejection and misunderstanding? Do all romantics have to work out these things? Do they have to compartmentalize or become disingenuous? There are plenty of poets that liberally throw around their hearts after any interest they may have. They are beautiful words, but transparent people. Do you have to be transparent? Do you have to become unfeeling in order to feel?

Perhaps I finally understand Hemingway.
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”