Passersby observe Lee set up his typewriter on the High Line. (Credit: Vahini Shori)
The New York skyline darkened as evening descended on a recent spring evening, and the High Line was mostly abandoned, save for commuters rushing home or tourists finding the nearest exit. Three people remained, silhouetted by the city’s light. A bearded, burly, middle-aged man, Sean, sat on the ledge of Karon Davis’ sculpture portraying a ballerina’s curtsy. His partner, Pauline, of similar age, stood across from him as they silently wept. A third, younger person looked down and read aloud a poem he just tore from his manual portable typewriter.
Jayshawn Lee, 27, has been typing poems on demand since 2021 as a member of Ars Poetica, a creative events collective that staffs events in the United States and abroad. Lee’s on-demand poetry stems from conversations with people who share what’s on their minds when prompted by his question: “How can a poem serve you today?”
Lee first crossed paths with Ars Poetica three years ago when he entered and won a poetry competition it hosted, responding to the prompt “Haiku for Justice.” He was just completing his degree in international affairs and human rights at New York University’s Gallatin School of Individualized Study, where he led an on-campus poetry collective. Lee’s winning haiku reflected the events of the preceding spring, when the Black Lives Matter movement coalesced around the murder of George Floyd. Lee, a Black man from Harlem, wrote:
Just-riot spring, a man
goes a season early
streets flood, his name said!
A few weeks later, Ars Poetica invited Lee to join.
Three years and seven typewriters later, Lee, who also has master’s in human rights from Columbia University, works as a professional poet and account manager at Ars Poetica. The job requires him to find and work events where poets bring their typewriters and compose poetry for clients on the spot. He has typed at nightclubs, banks, community events, weddings, bat mitzvahs and other venues and events.
Lee works about 25 hours a week at Ars Poetica, and in the rest of his time, he pursues his own artistic ventures: busking around the world, stationing himself in parks and on sidewalks, offering pay-what-you-wish poems to passersby. He also plies his trade at events for organizations such as Amnesty International, which recently flew him to Detroit to craft poems at their Banned Books Café. Between his office job and poetic typing on demand, Lee said he earns about $80,000 a year. He shares a three-bedroom apartment in Harlem with two roommates.
“It’s not about him,” said Thaddeus Vines, a 28-year-old Army sergeant and friend of Lee’s, watching him at work. “It’s about the way people light up … When it’s not transactional, it’s an experience.” The poet for hire is invested in the life stories, happiness and truth of the people who receive his verses.
This exchange of energy and attention isn’t limited to strangers on the street. Even in corporate settings, clients have been vulnerable in sharing their innermost thoughts in ways one wouldn’t expect in an office. “It’s because I’m very one on one with people,” Lee said.
While all Ars Poetica poets use typewriters, there is no standardized style, length or content of their poems. What makes Lee’s poetry his? “People are drawn to different things in language,” he said. “For me, I love imagery. I love questions. I love offering wisdom. I love mixing Latin-y and Germanic, meaning I like to put things that are like, very highbrow and then something really lowbrow right next to each other.”
The evening on the High Line, at Lee’s usual spot next to the West 23rd Street entrance, tourists and New Yorkers alike stopped to stare at him typing on his Hermes Rocket – the “Porsche of typewriters,” he mentioned more than once. It’s aquamarine, slim and compliments his lavender turtleneck and tie-dyed pants which feature greens, blues and purples. Lee’s appearance and demeanor are soft. His skin is light and freckled, his hair blond. He coordinates his outfits with the typewriters he collects.
In November, two young siblings in town from Austin, Texas for their cousin’s bar mitzvah, hovered over Lee as he typed. Instead of requesting a poem, they asked to try the typewriter to type out birthday cards for their cousin.
In the meantime, he read aloud a poem he completed for the couple sitting a few feet behind him, Milly and Deanna from New York. He asked about their day, what moves them, how they were feeling, then produced nine lines capturing their love and their day visiting Chelsea galleries. The young man, Milly, vowed to save the card carrying the black-inked poem forever and, to everyone sitting on the High Line steps, declared: “I’m never getting rid of this. So, when you’re famous, I can flag it, and then sell it for like a billion dollars.”
For Deanna & Milly 11.07.24
The brilliance of hands allow
us to make new worlds
to see.
The gentle-course of brush strokes
bring us to this new wonder.
Take all in such glory, let us
wander & find newfound canvas
to live through
When asked about the writers he looks to for inspiration, Lee gushed about the writers Danez Smith, Rainer Maria Rilke, Ocean Vuong and Ta-Nehisi Coates.
“Those four, oh my goodness, that, that is my Mount Rushmore, that is my Mount Rushmore,” Lee said. The works that speak most to Lee are their epistolaries, “Letters to a Young Poet,” “Between the World and Me,” “On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous,” and “Homie.” The cadence and intimacy of these men soothe and inspire him.
Sean and Pauline approached Lee in the dusk, insisting to know what he was doing with a typewriter in the middle of the High Line. Pauline had seen typewriting poets on Instagram. When the couple asked the price of a poem, Lee assured them that it was free. They offered to donate to a cause he cares about, but Lee instead engaged them in a conversation, asking them what a poem could do for them that, what brought them to the High Line, who they are, where they come from.
They were on their first trip to New York City together. Pauline loves New York City, and on her fifth visit, she just had to bring her husband. Sean loves machines and aircrafts and almost wandered away from Pauline today because he was so attracted to the Intrepid, an aircraft carrier and museum berthed on the Hudson. He felt a magnetic pull, he said. Pauline worried, but now she’s laughing. They’ve been together for seven years.
“When you find your soulmate, you know,” they said, finishing each other’s sentence, paying no mind to the typewriter’s loud clacking.
Eventually the tapping of the machine ceased. Lee askd for the spellings of their names and if he could read the poem he’s just written for them. One line in, Pauline’s eyes begin to flood. By the end of the reading, Sean is also crying silent tears. They thanked Lee effusively, pushed a bill into Lee’s hand, and walked off.
To further explore the city, clutching the poem that’s captured their great love. Lee stayed behind.
For Pauline & Sean 11.07.24
Even in this lived-wandering,
we find how the heart lunges to
it’s eternal home.
Our shared comfort. As we travel
this world, blue-ocean heavy
and free.
Even in my love of flight machines,
it is the nearness of us
that makes us fly. I love this life
with you.
About the author(s)
Vahini Shori is a journalist based in New York City reporting character-driven and people-focused stories.