The last and most recent poem is one I wrote many weeks before it was published. For some reason, I didn't feel like publishing it immediately. Rather, I invited a close friend to review it, looking for some honest and critical feedback. It's something I rarely do (asking for real, literary feedback), but I thought it was one that could inform my writing. As you'll see, she found my preamble more interesting than the poem (which I can appreciate). So, in the spirit of engaging with the process, I thought I'd both write a bit about the poem and print what I wrote her in the email. I'm still not sure why I decided to send that poem on that night, but it had an interesting result nonetheless.
First, my hesitation/delay/thoughts in my head...
After reading through the past year of this blog, I noticed (obvious as it was) the vast majority of the posts came from a place of venting and of reconciliation. It wasn't that I was attempting to reconcile anything in my actual relationship (because, as you may have guessed from these posts, I believe/know that such things can only be healed through mutual participation). It has had more to do with taming and understanding and attempting to heal from the emotional tornado that has ripped through my life. All that was known is now unknown. All that was light became dark. Even though I don't challenge the importance of my writing (it's too much like lifeblood to me), I always knew it was more about the cathartic process than the writing process. Even in all my self-indulgent dreams, I have an impossible time seeing the potential in anything I write beyond the fact that I feel the impulse, the need, to put it all down on paper (or out into the virtual world, as the case may be).
In noticing this heavily weighted trend, I thought I'd tamper with some of the ideas that I'd scribbled down over those previous few days/weeks (which never materialized into anything), and attempt something a little more structured and maybe a little less, well, desperately morose. Let's be honest... some of it was downright depressing. I maintained the subject matter, but did so without context in an attempt to make it more universal. I tried to use more concrete language and fewer abstract ideas to develop a theme throughout. While reading previous poems, I sometimes (read: often) found that they lost their way in the rhyme and in the moment and their beginning and end didn't always find each other. As it turns out, one of the side effects might have been too many concrete images and not enough substance. But, it's all about learning and I'm glad she was as honest as she was (even if she did nearly abandon the critical process by condemning her own opinion and telling me it's "lovely" :) ). I appreciate the help, DvP.
Now, the email, so you can all participate in all facets of my mindset at the time:
It seems like I go in spurts with my writing, and I seem to have little control over when I'm feeling like telling a story and when I'm not. Some days the words spray from my fingers like a leaking roof during a torrential rain. I never edit... never spend time proofing these rivers of words that pour out onto the page. You asked me in one of my comments if it'll ever turn this writing into something more. I knew what you meant and have considered it. But the fact that the words exist and they're placed somewhere may be enough consolation for me. Few people read [this] blog (and that's always been the case), and even though I know that there's a couple people who still stop by and peruse and participate in that frail, nervous world I maintain, my purpose has always been cathartic, and maybe just the slightest bit egotistical. My poetry, ridden with cliche and overly obvious rhyme, has never been a place of confidence for me. I go back later and continually shake my head at the lack of skill and precision involved (most of the time, anyway). But the one thing I always remember and still acknowledge is that it's always real. There's times I don't always find the right word. There's other times I can't string together a comprehensible thought to save my life. But I know that at the moment of writing, it's something that needs to get out, and so I "speak" in gray type on a black background. Funny... light impressed upon the darkness... if that's not a metaphor...
And so.
T
