This month has been incredibly taxing (no pun intended) on our household. We are a little over a month away from our wedding date. My partner is working on finding a new career path. I am less than one month away from being done with graduate school classes. I am starting another "figuring out my life" chapter in my story...will it ever really end? Needless to say, on top of all other daily challenges, there has been a bit of stress happening here.
Recently I have visited my blog wanting to say something or meaning to say something but then feeling like I had nothing to say that could be put into a neat, compact, little motivational/genuine post. Truthfully, lately I have felt a bit without significant purpose in the blogosphere which is most definitely a reflection of how I find myself feeling in "real life".
However, it's been long enough, and I am tired of wandering in thought and not writing something down. So I came on here to write about the first idea that came to mind, and my intial thought is about poetry.
So. Poetry. Do you read it? It's okay to be honest and admit that you don't pay much attention to poetry. I know that I don't. It's also okay to not like poetry. At first I really didn't like poetry much at all.
Honestly, why I'm thinking about poetry is because April is National Poetry Month--I found out on Twitter. So, see, Twitter's not that bad.
Since I heard about it, I have visited various websites devoted to poetry and began my own poetry anthology online. These acts are more than I've ever done for poetry on my own behalf, my whole life.
However, while browsing these sites, I realized that I do not hold many poems near and dear to my heart. And I wondered why. I recognized too, that spoken word outside of musical lyrics seems to be less and less apparent and accessible today. With all the forms of social media that require a minimal set of characters and often no audio-aspect, I can see how poetry seems to be dying.
I also noted that the poetry that I was introduced to as an English major was often poetry that did not always speak to my story or resonate with me. Or I couldn't understand it. Some of that reasoning may lie in the fact that much of the poets I studied were a bunch of really old, dead, white guys. I'm not sure, it's just a guess.
In addition, I admit that I also have felt like the poetry I knew belonged to the upper-class--to those people that frequent theatre and enjoy reciting old poems in Middle-English or telling Shakespearean inside jokes. To this point, just last month I attended a poetry reading happening a mile away from my home in a supper club joint and found that the people there were all white-haired, white people, talking about white problems. Then I thought about the people who show up at the local bar for the weekly, open-mic, spoken word sessions. I wondered where is the space/place where these two crowds overlap/intersect, and I wondered what is poetry, anyway?
I came to the thought that regardless of who it comes from (white dead guy or otherwise), all great poems offer great wisdom for people today and also allow people to express themselves in ways that cannot be heard without the lyrical fusion of one's authentic voice mixed with playfulness. With that said I am now on a hunt for poems that use language and topics that speak to me. I am also back to writing poetry. It's not easy, but it's fun.
In honor of National Poetry Month, I'd like to share with you a recent poem that I became aquainted with, thanks to my future-sister-in-law, Anne. She is always reading poetry up North and around town and the other day she posted a lovely poem online that touched me. It's a simple poem about rain, which I relate to as I have been reflecting on Earth day and watching the Spring raindrops fall in Minnesota.
Capturing the Sound of Rain by Raymond A. Foss
Listening to the timpani
the rhythm of the rain
the rap, the tap,
...the ratta-tat-tat,
the staccato of the drumming
on the roof of the van
The storm raging ‘round us
in the stillness of the parking lot
trying to drum to the beat
on laps and the steering wheel
keeping time with the chaos
the randomness of the clatter
Too few drummers for the task
capturing the sound of rain
Also, if you are still reading you get the bonus of reading a poem I wrote two years ago--the last poem I wrote. It was inspired by love as well as a conversation I had with some friends about how anybody can be an artist.
A poem about love by Yours Truly
Tired minds and worried brows
Will make their mark,
Forget to sow
Those hopes, and dreams, and fears
We can’t remember.
Locked pinkies under the sheets,
Hot legs touched by cooling feets,
I rest my head against your furless shoulder.
Love awakens our holy hearts,
Puts to rest those broken parts;
Heals some memories at the start
Within us, stirring ‘til morning.
At the bright sun, the cock then cries,
“Love is patient, love is kind,”
creating for us, in us, those blind—
Blind-spots.
Hiding all our fears and faults,
Protecting shields from reckless thoughts.
Light rays shine dismantling waves
And every falsehood melts away…
Liquids dissipating
Into thick, heavy air—
The ending nightmare
Bobs somewhere
In atmosphere-
Now plainly forgotten.
But here in bed, still, I lay.
Caressing your calm,
Sleeping arm.
My very core, it plays
Pretty picture shows
They enter in, then out
My soul.
Want to start your own poetry notebook? Check out Poets.org.
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