A Love Affair?
Petals blossom.
Heat plunders.
Leaves sway.
Cold awakens.
Seasons come, and go,
over and again,
and still, you're here.
Stuck somewhere in the depths
of my thinking.
Stuck,
you are,
as I am frozen
in between and
all around
those limits of time and space
humans are usually bound to.
But not today.
There's nothing like the empty page of a brand new notebook and a new blue/purple marker to spur the creative juices.
I've discovered recently (i.e. just now) that I write with a sort of formula. Ish. I start with a few lines, usually four or so, that I think of in my head. I write those down. Then, unless I think of more lines, I just start writing, trying to connect what I've written with what I was thinking I wanted to write. A lot of the time, as with the previous poem, I can't. I can't make it make sense. Which is funny-strange because I made up the first few lines to go along with an idea I'd had for the connection between what I had and what I wanted. Sometimes it turns out to be pretty nice, as I think this is. Sometimes it just sounds discombobulated and weird and not at all like anything except a big mess. But, of course, it's not ever a big mess because I'm a genius and perfect and you knew that! I'm just joking.
I don't have a process except that my process is that I don't have a process. Make sense? Of course not. Because poetry is the only place I can make sense of anything I'm thinking and mostly I end up making sense of something I wasn't even trying to make sense of in the beginning. And, seeing as how my priority in "making sense of things" is to figure out if he liked me, sometimes I can't even make sense of what I'm trying so hard to figure out, no matter how eloquently and perfectly I can articulate the way I feel and the way it happened.
Me and poetry have a kind of love-hate relationship. I love to write it and think about it and come up with ideas and sometimes even to read it and work out the symbols and merde. New word I learned in French today. Look it up. You'll see what kind of French these teachers are teaching us these days. Poetry? It hates the way my brain works, always trying to screw it up and make me think I'm making this point when really the only point is the one on the end of my pencil or pen or marker, whatever I happen to be writing with, or crayon because poetry doesn't care if I'm busy or if what is ending up on the page is what I even actually feel just so long as it gets written and gets to tie up my time with this, at least in this time with the move from paper to website, worthless and "weak" endeavor.
What do I mean by weak? I mean that in French class today I was reading the homework for my poetry class and the girl next to me asked what it was for and when I said it was for my poetry class she laughed at me. I mean that when people say I write poetry they are seen as losers who can't get any friends or any. I mean that when talking about poetry my fiction teacher said people are only poets because they're too lazy to write complete stories with complete, correct grammar. I mean that people who write poetry run the risk of being seen as weak. That's what I mean.
And yet, I can't help coming back to it, maybe because I'm too lazy to write it all down and make it into a story. Maybe because poetry has seized me but hasn't let go quite yet. Or maybe because I am a loser who can't get what she wants so she writes about it hoping like some preteen-braced-dweeb that somehow he'll hear me and come back so I can ask him what I've been waiting to ask him. Whatever the reason is, I'm pretty sure poetry will not be loosening its hold for some long while.
While stumbling around on StumbleUpon I found a poet who makes me believe in poetry. Also, that I suck as a poet.
Heat plunders.
Leaves sway.
Cold awakens.
Seasons come, and go,
over and again,
and still, you're here.
Stuck somewhere in the depths
of my thinking.
Stuck,
you are,
as I am frozen
in between and
all around
those limits of time and space
humans are usually bound to.
But not today.
There's nothing like the empty page of a brand new notebook and a new blue/purple marker to spur the creative juices.
I've discovered recently (i.e. just now) that I write with a sort of formula. Ish. I start with a few lines, usually four or so, that I think of in my head. I write those down. Then, unless I think of more lines, I just start writing, trying to connect what I've written with what I was thinking I wanted to write. A lot of the time, as with the previous poem, I can't. I can't make it make sense. Which is funny-strange because I made up the first few lines to go along with an idea I'd had for the connection between what I had and what I wanted. Sometimes it turns out to be pretty nice, as I think this is. Sometimes it just sounds discombobulated and weird and not at all like anything except a big mess. But, of course, it's not ever a big mess because I'm a genius and perfect and you knew that! I'm just joking.
I don't have a process except that my process is that I don't have a process. Make sense? Of course not. Because poetry is the only place I can make sense of anything I'm thinking and mostly I end up making sense of something I wasn't even trying to make sense of in the beginning. And, seeing as how my priority in "making sense of things" is to figure out if he liked me, sometimes I can't even make sense of what I'm trying so hard to figure out, no matter how eloquently and perfectly I can articulate the way I feel and the way it happened.
Me and poetry have a kind of love-hate relationship. I love to write it and think about it and come up with ideas and sometimes even to read it and work out the symbols and merde. New word I learned in French today. Look it up. You'll see what kind of French these teachers are teaching us these days. Poetry? It hates the way my brain works, always trying to screw it up and make me think I'm making this point when really the only point is the one on the end of my pencil or pen or marker, whatever I happen to be writing with, or crayon because poetry doesn't care if I'm busy or if what is ending up on the page is what I even actually feel just so long as it gets written and gets to tie up my time with this, at least in this time with the move from paper to website, worthless and "weak" endeavor.
What do I mean by weak? I mean that in French class today I was reading the homework for my poetry class and the girl next to me asked what it was for and when I said it was for my poetry class she laughed at me. I mean that when people say I write poetry they are seen as losers who can't get any friends or any. I mean that when talking about poetry my fiction teacher said people are only poets because they're too lazy to write complete stories with complete, correct grammar. I mean that people who write poetry run the risk of being seen as weak. That's what I mean.
And yet, I can't help coming back to it, maybe because I'm too lazy to write it all down and make it into a story. Maybe because poetry has seized me but hasn't let go quite yet. Or maybe because I am a loser who can't get what she wants so she writes about it hoping like some preteen-braced-dweeb that somehow he'll hear me and come back so I can ask him what I've been waiting to ask him. Whatever the reason is, I'm pretty sure poetry will not be loosening its hold for some long while.
While stumbling around on StumbleUpon I found a poet who makes me believe in poetry. Also, that I suck as a poet.
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