kismet poetry

so, I used to right poetry. . . often.  But then I stopped for hundreds of single reasons. Mostly each single reason was a different way to let the critic inside tell me I suck.

Then things happen in strange strange ways - kismet if you will  - and poetry seems to make sense today.  So, I wrote some and I want to share it with you.  But I want to tell you the journey that brought me to it because it's shit like what I'm about to tell you that makes me believe in things like kismet and kismet gives me permission to like what I wrote.

The first bit starts several weeks ago, I read a Twitter about something that referenced a blog called scribomaniac.  I liked her writing.  It reminded me a bit of my own blog in its breadth of topic and sometimes funny and sometimes sad musings.  So, I put it on my "blogs to read" RSS feed and look at it weekly.  She, like me, doesn't post consistently, which is totally fine, and also makes me feel better about my own neglect (I do not claim her to be neglectful, just that her frequency gives me permission to be what I call neglectful).

One day, I read a post and laughed out loud.  She wrote about all the stuff  regarding poetry that I lived and felt.  Read it here.  If you ever wrote poetry, and you are a girl, I think you'll relate.  I did.

This didn't kick me in the pants.  But the next bits built up to my kick in the pants.

April is poetry month.  Every morning, I wake up to a friend on Facebook putting another piece of poetry out there.  I happily devour it and move on with the day.

it inspires me

4/15/2013 in Boston occurred.  And I cried. I never understand why these types of things happen.  It depressed me so much I spent the evening in my bedroom staring into nothing, wanting to go to sleep (it is what I do when I get depressed).  I questioned why these things happen, I questioned what the hell a bombing would accomplish for whomever did it.  I was just in despair.  Three hours after I slid into my blankets and covered my head, I peeked out and grabbed my pink Nikki McClure notebook and wrote . . .

On 4/16/2013, I woke up and felt like the whole world was so loud; I was just so sensitive to everything.  I wrote it on Facebook.  I spent the entire day talking with people and interacting and being ON all day.  I was exhausted.  I was so emotional, the world was so very loud for me that day.

I was very excited to be going on vacation on Friday, April 19th to Port Townsend with my husband.  It was basically for me to get away.  I needed to get away for a bit.  We went to a bed and breakfast called The Old Consulate Inn.  Friday night Mikal and I went to a "cabaret" called Kreepshow. . . the

"goodness" of this show is up for debate in my house.  I say it was cute, Mikal . . . not so much.  But what it DID have was poetry.  And lots of it.  Some of it was good, some of it was contrived, but it was yet another piece to my kismet puzzle slowing coming into focus.

The next morning, we went to breakfast (they have those at the bed and breakfast places) and met several people.  Two of them were writers.  One is a woman who used to be a journalist who left her husband home for the weekend and is looking to write on this weekend.  She was adorable (and I got her email so we can correspond).  The other of them is a poet who does creativity workshops.  She loves to help unlock the creativity in those that have been stifled for so long.

I spent that afternoon and evening writing and reading.  It was wonderful.

The next morning, we were all there again and the poet was asking if anyone had seen the Poetry Post. I had not, but many had.  She showed me a picture and it started a flurry of conversations around all the places in Port Townsend people had visited over the previous day that had to do with writing (I kind of missed the boat on this town, but if I have my own "writing weekend" I'll know what do do next time).

On the way home, I was catching up on Twitter (yes, can you believe it, I barely used my phone all weekend!) and I ran into a posting by Amanda Palmer (it is no surprise she figures into this too).  She had written a poem about the Boston bombing as well (well, for one of the bombers).  You can read it here. . . apparently it is pretty controversial.  People are angry that she wrote it (the comments are pretty crazy).  Some can't even see past what they think it is to digest what it may be.

When I got home, I went back to my notebook and typed out the poem I had written the previous monday.  And then I remembered "the world is so loud." And I decided to write that too. . . I said it because I felt so sad and so empty and so overwhelmed by all of it.  Anyway, here are my two poems.  They helped me cope.  It's what poetry is supposed to do (despite what some people say on Amanda's blog).

Paralysis

nothing is safe

nor was it ever

naivety equated it

time begets terror and fear

and reason to hate where

chaos blasts connectedness

together

I sit still out of helplessness and

fear

I sit still in paralysis

my feet don’t move while my heart travels miles

that paralysis is just fear of losing

everything

is not lost

I feel

The world is so loud

I hear the colors and shapes and

and see aromas of anger run before my eyes.

heat and light burn the inside of my nose as they flash on and off, and off and on

time heals and peals

creating raw callouses of space with no depth

in the sea against my screaming skin.

I tilt back my head, hold out my tongue and melt

emptiness to fill up my chest until the hole opens up wide enough

for the embrace of humanity.

The point I'm trying to make here is that all of these pieces fell into place to give me permission to 1) write it down 2) share it 3) not care if someone likes it. . . because I  like it.