[A few days ago I said “at this point nothing is off-limits for this blog- within reason of course” and now I find myself writing about something that I did not expect to.]
In the past when it comes to writing I think the only thing I have loathed more than writing in general is writing poetry. I have nothing against poetry, and quite enjoy reading it, but writing it felt like torture.
The only times I have written poetry that I can recall are in school- mainly high school. Where we were generally given a subject and asked to base our poem on it or were asked to write a certain type of poem. After these experiences I never expected that I would voluntarily write poetry- write it for fun, write it to clear my head, or to sift through my thoughts.
Yet, on Friday just before leaving for a walk a little saying popped in my head, and from there it developed into a short poem as I strolled from street to street.
Words are fickle
Words are fine
Weave them, mold them
In your mind.
Relinquish your hold,
Break the binds
Share them. Pair them.
Let them shine.
After I realized what I had done my mind entered a state of shock, trying to process what was going on. All I could think about was all the times I’ve toiled over words and despised my attempts at constructing poetry. Yet, at the same time my brain was flitting about enjoying the words it joined together.
Later on Friday, I think as way to process I wrote another poem.
I do not know what’s going on
But to the words I must succumb.
To flit, to fly
to reach the sky.
Forsaken worries in fact were not .
For the journey of the meek will start
If only fear and doubt depart.
When Saturday rolled around I didn’t expect to write anymore, but before morning’s end I had written three short poems. Here are two of them:
A soiled path
A sullied journey
My path in wake.
If only for a moment to
Forget what’s not,
And start anew.
Indeed I feared I broke the line
Severed the path on which you mine
Now I flee
Only to hope you now be free
And today, I wrote another. Although it took me nearly all day to find the words.
In this land content I lay
A cool wind to guide my way.
And in the sky a giant waits,
And as I turn I see,
a dewdrop hanging listlessly.
Signaling the stars to wake.
I have shared three of these on Twitter and find myself wondering things like: Are others going to read it the same way I read it or say it? Is the punctuation or lack thereof conveying the rhythm I was hoping for? And, can I sacrifice grammar for rhyme?
While poetry still confounds me I now have a newfound respect for anyone that writes it.