Dear Friend,
Do you feel it, that sweetness in the air? It's called hope. I've been writing poems everyday and sometimes it's a chore but sometimes it's an invitation for the sublime to dwell side by side with my humble soul, just for a little while...
We poets like to make grand claims about our art. Of course we do. And then some days I realize how small poetry is to people, and that saddens me. But it really is like a keyhole that you peer into; there's a whole world, a whole universe inside. It is what you make of it. As with all art, poetry requires a reader to engage with it. I'm still trying to read poems better and read better poems. And as for writing it, well that's a never-ending journey.
So my grand claim for this art: poetry, writing it everyday, overflows into every other task I do. I've been cooking more, and savoring food more, and on long bus rides, I've been drawing fellow passengers or scribbling down overheard conversations. I've also been reading more non-fiction, which is actually a great resource for poets and writers, so many facts, so many tidbits one can use.
Maybe it's the scavenger in me, the gleaner. Maybe poets are just natural packrats and eavesdroppers. The other day, someone on the bus said matter-of-factly, "I've been self-mutilating since I was five." Her arms were striped with white scars. It's not something I can just drop lightly into a poem, but you can be sure I am listening, and wondering.
The thing about people that I have to learn and relearn every time, they always surprise you. They're like poems and keyholes; they're bigger on the inside. You can't just judge them on their accent or their outfit and dismiss them out of hand. They have hopes and dreams too. They can teach you a thing or two, about love and living. And yes, sometimes, they disappoint. But when you don't get what you want, that's just the beginning of something new.
Here's to new things,
M.O.
Do you feel it, that sweetness in the air? It's called hope. I've been writing poems everyday and sometimes it's a chore but sometimes it's an invitation for the sublime to dwell side by side with my humble soul, just for a little while...
We poets like to make grand claims about our art. Of course we do. And then some days I realize how small poetry is to people, and that saddens me. But it really is like a keyhole that you peer into; there's a whole world, a whole universe inside. It is what you make of it. As with all art, poetry requires a reader to engage with it. I'm still trying to read poems better and read better poems. And as for writing it, well that's a never-ending journey.
So my grand claim for this art: poetry, writing it everyday, overflows into every other task I do. I've been cooking more, and savoring food more, and on long bus rides, I've been drawing fellow passengers or scribbling down overheard conversations. I've also been reading more non-fiction, which is actually a great resource for poets and writers, so many facts, so many tidbits one can use.
Maybe it's the scavenger in me, the gleaner. Maybe poets are just natural packrats and eavesdroppers. The other day, someone on the bus said matter-of-factly, "I've been self-mutilating since I was five." Her arms were striped with white scars. It's not something I can just drop lightly into a poem, but you can be sure I am listening, and wondering.
The thing about people that I have to learn and relearn every time, they always surprise you. They're like poems and keyholes; they're bigger on the inside. You can't just judge them on their accent or their outfit and dismiss them out of hand. They have hopes and dreams too. They can teach you a thing or two, about love and living. And yes, sometimes, they disappoint. But when you don't get what you want, that's just the beginning of something new.
Here's to new things,
M.O.
