Already on this blog, I have written about poetry.
But in that entry, I was talking about poetry. The heart within art, the beauty, the reason why art is created – the real gift hidden within it that all art points to- hope.
Now, I want to talk about actual poetry.
And I mean poetry, the sequence of rhyming words and thoughts that are uplifting, transcendent unfathomable [to some]. And completely opaque to others.
Poetry, is literature’s hardest sell. I think it is because people are intimidated by it, worried they will read it and be asked what it even means, and not be able to provide an answer. Worried that in some sly way, it is designed to make sense to only some.
Poetry is not like fiction, or like prose generally where everything is laid bare and in concrete sequential ideas. Poetry doesn’t work that way; it is supposed to undercut our experiences, go beyond. Take us further in how we not only consider words or literature, but ourselves. That oblique, metaphorical way it is written is in order to capture the feelings and experiences of being human that fall into that category. Into grey zones. Or the ones that fall into the bright medley of colours.
This is something I know, something I believe, yet even I, someone who writes and enjoys poetry, needed to take a break from the art form sometime last year. I just wasn’t feeling it then.
So I took a break. And right now, I am back.
And I wonder if I am back, or where back really is.
Is it at the point where I once again appreciate the art within poetry? At a point where some things I wish to create can only be in the form of poetry. Or am I just comfortable now, more willing to include my much more ordinary experiences within art? Willing to believe these are worthy of note, worthy of creating monuments to them with words.
Ordinary things like these. Ordinary.
But really? What is ordinary?
REALLY, WHAT IS ORDINARY?
During the pandemic, I was at a point where I hadn’t written any poetry that I liked.
Frankly, I hadn’t written any poetry.
I now know this is simply a thing that happens. But then, I was worried. So, I went online, searching for a way to get back into it, to find a new lens to look at poetry through that would bring me back home to it.
So, I came across this video on YouTube. It was an event that simply, celebrated poetry. It featured movie stars, writers, poets. The main idea was to make poetry more accessible, and to show it as something that can be incorporated - with a lot of benefit - into our lives.
One after another, a member of the panel would talk about a life experience and how poetry was a small shining light that helped them through it. Or solidified the moment for them.
Someone would talk about the grief of losing someone, or of getting older and not knowing what to do about it. Or someone would talk about a very low point in their life, and how they remembered the lines of a poem
Do not go gentle into that good night
Rage, rage against the dying of the light
Or a classic like Maya Angelou’s poem Still I Rise would be recited, punctuating all of the ways we can give ourselves the chance to rise above a world that tries relentlessly to sink us.
Someone could recite a poem about a dog [ I love those ]
However, the idea that struck me the most was the one where a panel member talked about doing something called a “Poetry Pharmacy”. The idea is a bit strange, but bear with me.
In general, the person – who is obviously well versed in poetry [ha!] – would listen to someone’s complaints, similar to what a therapist, or a dear friend might do. After listening, a poem, or a poetry collection would be recommended, or ‘prescribed’ like drugs in a pharmacy.
And in some strange way, it was effective.
Of course, I do not really believe it is strange. I think the reason why those poems helped is very obvious; they show us that we are not alone.
That simple thing, is infinitely powerful. And it informs the way we live, the way we interact with our lives, in a profound way.
If one really thinks about it, poetry captures the emotions we are most unable to describe with simple words, or most ashamed, fearful of admitting in front of other people. In front of an audience.
Having something that describes our amorphous, unique inner world for us. Gives words and a definite form to them. It is always astonishing. We think we are alone in the world, and then a poem happens.
We find out that someone has walked that path we so fearfully tread, and the person had left behind the small gift of a poem for us – a compass pointing north.
When I read a good poem, it is like a long forgotten song – something where the meter and rhyme is right there, slightly out of the reach of the consciousness. But here comes this poem, like the song embodied, bringing me into a fleeting but beautiful understanding.
WHERE DO WE GO FROM HERE?
After watching that video of the poetry pharmacy, nothing much changed. Maybe it would have helped for me to get a 'prescription' for a poem about writers struggling to get anything on the page, anything they genuinely enjoyed.
I am not sure. Everything was muddled up then.
What happened was that I spent an even longer amount of time than I envisaged in that point, that lull. But something began to shift slowly - the subject matter of my poems began to reflect the simple, ordinary life that I was living, with its simple, ordinary pre-occupations. If anything, this taught me that all of my experiences are worthy of being lifted up in art. To be gazed at, admired, preserved, enjoyed in a poem.
It is why I got the chance to create this blog in fact. That lull in poetry made me turn to prose; I found it to be more readily accessible to me. To the point I was in in my life then. It allowed me grow in an a way I did not entirely plan for.
Now and then, I think about all of the poems I could have written, if I had been writing poems during that time. I think about it.
About them, their form, the layers from my life I could easily infuse into poetry. But I am here now, a very different artist than I thought I would be. But it is in no way bad. I am still an artist.
Still here, and I have gone this way, what have I learnt in particular?
This simple truth; in all of my love and appreciation for art, I believe the artist is more valuable than any work they can ever create. No matter how celebrated that creation is. People are worth more than what they can do.
Also, if you need it, take a break from your art.
I got to live this out. To put my money where my mouth is, as they say.
Not writing poetry, allowed me to grow as a person, because a lot of my poetry before the pandemic was strongly trying to recreate, or to focus on pains I was trying to grow from. A house divided cannot stand. So, I chose the way that would allow me stand best, in the long run. I think it worked out just fine.
Here I am now, and wonder of wonders, I got a poem published recently. It is something I wrote last year, a gentle meditation on home, belonging, and well, returning to a place where one belongs – or as I did, recreating one altogether. it is something i enjoyed writing.
Grateful to have it published in a magazine I admire, and I got to work with great editors again, it is a huge win.
In the end, poetry is beautiful, and I still have a long and beautiful journey ahead with it. As a friend told me when I was worried about not having written any poetry in a while; live your life, poetry will always wait for you.
And it is true, it waits, like a dear patient friend.