BlogHer - What it feels like: Writing poetry again after 15 years - Comments

Poetry as a life saver!

aprillorier — Mon, 17 Dec 2007 13:32:04 -0600

When I was a child being abused in my home, I began to write poetry so I could say how I felt in metaphors. No one would take the time to try to figure out the metaphors, so it was a "safe" way of expressing myself. I have never stopped writing poetry. It saved my sanity and my life! After my divorce, I wrote this:

Abandonment and The Dancing Bride
(c) 1994-2007 April Lorier

I eat ripe melons and peaches by my sink, let the juice
tickle my arms and splat on my toes. Like a child,
I giggle as the juice dries to sticky.
I plant fewer beans and more flowers in my garden, now.
Cheerful bouquets grace my table to celebrate each day,
even when visitors are not expected.

I sneak out before the Mr. Sun rises to watch him rub his
sleepy eyes, the sky progressing from tangerine
to aquamarine. I welcome the fresh clean day, celebrating
with blueberry pancakes and steaming
chocolate-raspberry coffee.
My senses drink in the luxuriant balance
of my Creator's perfect handiwork.

I wiggle my bright red toenails and squish early-morning
dew-covered grass between them. Unconcerned
with neighbors' reactions, the birds and I bathe in the rain
without cover. I squeal in delight as my feathered
friends sing! I can sneeze, cry, laugh from my belly
--all without apologizing for myself.

I have a tambourine and I play it as I dance unashamedly
for my King. Throw open those windows!
Lift those shades! Watch me Son Dance!
Freely my body sways, my hands beating out joyful
rhythms of celebration for all He has given His girl
to... see... touch... smell... hear... taste!

I fold fewer clothes and paint more pictures--oh, not
proper pieces of fruit, but bold splashes of musical color!
Regal Purples! Bold Reds! Bright Fuschias!
Playful Yellows! Vibrant Greens!
Black and White be gone!
(Who ever saw black or white in one of God's lovely
Promise Rainbows?)

I hold much looser now because I know nothing on this
earth lasts forever. Fewer headaches and imagined
problems haunt me these days. I rest totally
in the Sovereign Plan of my Loving Kingly Father.
Each day is a new surprise as I receive His miraculous,
generous, already-allotted provision.

My King is the Keeper of my dreams. I expect far more
from Him and much less from others. He's taught me to
risk all on Him. I sing happier songs,
pray happier prayers, live more in His present moment.
We share intimacies as the ocean sprays my face,
as the sun bathes my tanned body.
Proudly I wear my Celebration Dress of Royal Purple
and Gold today. I am not the child of a pauper,
but of The King of all Kings! A look of approval
is on His face today, for He withholds no good
thing from me. His provision stands beside me today,
and in our union, we feel His smile.

http://aprillorier.blogspot.com

"Life can make you sad, or you can choose to laugh at circumstances. I choose to laugh! God is bigger than any of my circumstances, and He cherishes me. What's to cry about?"

There's wonderful sense of movement in your poem, Susan!

cherylsnell — Mon, 17 Sep 2007 12:55:59 -0500

I'm glad that you've picked up your pen again.

Finding connections between objects can serve so many purposes beyond the exercise of attention. I've found that writing poetry helps me clarify what I think about things.

Cheryl Snell
http://www.shivasarms.blogspot.com/

sometimes there are more or other reasons

Vera — Sun, 16 Sep 2007 23:32:13 -0500

What a beautiful and inspiring story and poem.

I started writing poetry as a way to express powerful feelings after my dad died suddenly when I was 9 years old. Later I also played with it, but it was always a personal and powerful release valve. For about 15 years, coinciding with the time when I was most high profile in business, I didn't write at all. Part of that was having my voice strangled, part of it was being able to speak powerfully in day to day life, and part of it was biting my tongue for love of my sons.

From talking to friends about it, I've come to believe there are also times when we're developing a new part of ourselves which is still fragile, and speaking fully, to the extent that we move out of ourselves, can threaten that valuable new expression of self.

Vera

Poetry As A Creative Excercise

Lia — Fri, 14 Sep 2007 10:32:44 -0500

I read your post with much interest. I wonder how many woman went through those various stages towards finding their own voice. I certainly went through each and every one. I also went from professional ballet dancing to electrical engineering.

You post has given me the courage to try once again to write poetry. I remember loving that morning exercise or ritual. It was like taking a snapshot of my soul each and every day.

I very much enjoyed the mood and sentiments of your poem.

lia from luebeck, germany

Author of the yum yum cafe and coauthor of the Red Tent Blog.

Thank you

jessabean — Fri, 14 Sep 2007 07:36:25 -0500

Thank you for sharing this story. I too love poetry but stopped writing several years ago, because I was afraid and doubted my abilities. I still do. I've never had anything published, so I haven't even allowed myself to achieve success. But your account gives me hope that I can still find that voice, own it, and allow it to speak freely.

Again, thanks. This was a beautiful post!

Jessabean

Unquiet Heart

What it feels like: Writing poetry again after 15 years

susan mernit — Fri, 14 Sep 2007 01:05:27 -0500

Truly fifteen years ago, after writing poetry and fiction most of my life, I stopped. There we many reasons at the time—all of which made sense—but the one that I did not consciously understand then, which I see so clearly now, was that I was afraid. I was afraid of my own voice, afraid of what I might say, and afraid I might—because I had had some true success-be heard. And so I stopped writing poems and stories, wrote only articles and essays, instead, and then, not many years later, left writing to work in technology.

And now, unexpectedly, my writing voice is back. In the past two months, spurred on by a new relationship and talks with a friend, I have written fourteen poems. More tellingly, I am in love with poetry again; during this recent vacation, in Michigan, I spent much of my free time writing, reading and thinking about poems.It feels as though someone else who lived inside me but was asleep woke up, refreshed, and was reborn.

This new person—an aspect o f me, of course—is a very different writer than the one I was before. Most strikingly, I am no longer afraid of saying what I think and feel. Long ago I was the girl who wrote because no one would listen to her, then I became the woman who wrote to say things she was afraid to say out loud, and then sometime later I turned into someone who was afraid to say hard things and then couldn’t (didn’t) write (poetry). In the past few weeks, to my delight, I’ve become a poet once more, and one who is able—and proud—to own her voice. Amazingly, the work I’ve done on maintaining integrity and authenticity in my everyday life, on speaking truth and being accountable, has informed this brand new writing as well.

I see these poems I am crafting, as new and fresh as they are, as a chance to share moments of joy and expression that are meaningful to me, and to say things about where I am right now, as well as to speak about things that are challenging and/or defy convention. Most importantly, I feel as though I am writing them for me—not to publish them, not to get recognition for them—but to articulate thoughts and feelings and try to turn them into poems that are funny, articulate, sometimes beautiful.

The feminist writer and professor bell hooks, writing in her wonderfully profound, poetic and accessibly book Wounds of Passion, a writing life, talks about her coming of age as a writer as a struggle to resolve and unite mind and body as sources for inspiration. Hooks writes: “Fully feminist, fully-self actualized, I wanted to care for the soul and let my heart speak.”

In a similar manner, I feel like my return to writing poetry is both an acknowledgement of a long-lost self—a restoration of a voice I hid away long ago—and a step forward in the personal growth I’ve focused on in the past three years. Recently divorced with a child in college, I’ve been fortunate enough to use the changes in my life to ask myself new—and challenging—questions about gender, sexuality, feminism, and relationships.

At the same time, my life as a blogger, digerati, product developer and female tech-geek
has given me a chance to test my beliefs every day as I work in a world full of creativity and innovation that is quickly moving from being mostly male to being much more balanced. Suddenly, writing poetry has joined blogging as a morning discipline—one that is gets me up earlier and earlier—and I find myself thinking of ideas for poems—and possible lines—as I drive to the office.

In both life and writing poetry, I see what is called for is humor, integrity and courage. To be authentic we have to own what we feel, own our own words. In these new poems, it seems, I am giving voice to my thoughts and experiences in a new—and yet very familiar—way, sharing expressions that come from deep inside me and find their voice in words.

With that, one new poem I’d like to share, and then some related links:

A walk in the Oakland Hills

The path in the sun goes straight up the hill side.
On the right are the sycamores, felled trunks amid the rocks,
old eucalyptus with tattered branches and tattier leaves,
scrub pines so dry the light wind makes them shiver.

On the left is the hill, sloping down towards the Bay,
Oakland dim at our feet in the woozy haze
As we squint over the water towards the bridge, far away,
The little boats bobbing too small to see.

Two hours ago you were making pancakes
Beating eggs, mixing flour, grating lemons just so.
One hour ago, I was washing dishes,
Scrubbing clean each bowl, each fork, each plate,
Everything dried, put away in its place.

Now we are walking to the top of the hill
Thighs laboring on the steep, dusty grade
We stop to pick blackberries, share the juicy fruit
Warmed by the bright arc of the day

The gift is how we can walk these paths together
What we give and what we exchange
What we share and what we offer
Without asking for anything
in return.