The Predator?

I’m going a bit out on a limb with this post. Way out, actually. I’m taking a writing class* (several, actually), and this day’s exercise was to write a poem, inspired by a number of carefully chosen prompts. To be clear — I’m not a poet. I generally don’t really “get” poetry, unless it’s performed for me.

Anyway, my classmates and I were each guided to choose a person, some characteristics about them, and some human condition. I chose someone I’ve followed on the internet for some time whom I admire for their honesty, intellectual prowess, and courage.** The human condition was (of course) “understanding.”

If this doesn’t mean anything to you, don’t worry. It probably won’t mean much to me in about a week, either. But it was a fun exercise. Besides… I do believe that a good argument — a good discussion — is a form of poetry in its own right.

He paces,

lost and found in his element; joyous and gladless.

Tools sharp, he is hyperaware — vulnerable and immune.

His prey is entranced, willing; no need to hurry or pounce.

He becomes the bars that imprison him.

They freeze; now brittle, transparent,

melting away in the warmth of the embrace.

* The class is called “The Creative Habit,” offered through Stanford University, led by Malena Watrous

** I’m not saying who.