It's an unfortunately common disease that spreads amongst those of us who enjoy putting pen to paper. Whether you're one of the greatest writers of all time or an angst ridden teenager who journals emotional poetry about the woes of the long and painful march through high school-isms. We all face it. Which would probably explain why I've been putting off writing something of substance in this blog.
Something I've allowed to take hold of me over many many years is that my writings are not worthy of public notice. "Gabi, it's just not something people care to read about." A familiar voice in the back of my head repeats this ditty every time I happen upon an idea or a story I want to share.
Today, as The Dirty Chai wipes clean of "re-posts" and starts down the road of fresh, original thought and idea, I would like to start off my portion by giving you a little insight into me, writer's block free. Today I've chosen a specific topic in writing: poetry.
Growing up in an emotionally wrecked home can cause one's mindset to lean towards various ways of coping with the cracks in the floor. Everyone handles these situations differently. In our household, sharing your feelings was an unheard of experience and, if such an event were to take place, it was often ill received. My way of handling things was to force myself not to speak. This specific type of adaptation, I've learned, can often cause what is known as the "soda bottle effect." Shake up a bottle of any carbonated substance long enough and the pressure will cause quite the eruption. Knowing myself well enough to know that this particular effect would probably cause me more pain and heartache than relief, I wrote my feelings down.
When I was hurt, frustrated, or depressed, writing poetry became my scape goat. It wasn't for anyone in particular. Just for me. The words written out were the part of my voice that was locked up; my heart bled on scraps of paper through any writing utensil I could get my hand on. I was never one to speak up because the words would always come out wrong or misleading. I wasn't taught to be comfortable with sharing. Today, although I am learning more and more how to open up, I laughably refer to my lack of good communication skills as "word vomit" or "verbal diarrhea." I can do that now. Laugh about it.
Throughout my adolescence and into my teen years my parents encouraged my gift of words though I'm not entirely sure there was any realization as to why I was so practiced at the time. My very first literature teacher, whom my parents bragged to often about my writing prior to my taking her course at the age of thirteen, confessed to me once that she thought my parents were just "talking me up." That she didn't realize what an amazing gift I had until I began writing essays for her class. I think that growing up filled with all kinds of different and sometimes more mature emotions, my words were a little more personal and it started to show even in my home work assignments.
As high school dragged on and incidents at home piled onto each other like heavy bricks, tension thickened and my words not only began to cut a little deeper but they also became muffed. Sometimes all I could manage to do was scribble out all of the hateful and angry words I felt trapped in my throat. Afterward, I would look at them as if it were something dirty. A self exorcism of sorts; a purging of the ugly part of myself that I had bottled up. Now as I find the crumbled and somewhat eligible bits of papers from my youth, I see more. I see yet another lost teenager crying out for someone to listen to them.
Matchbox Twenty's Singer/Songwriter Rob Thomas was once asked in an interview why his songs were so sad and deep. Thomas blatantly replied that no one writes when they're happy. When they're happy, they're out being happy and enjoying life. When you're sad you have a powerful emotion to write about. I remember this because it applied. It made sense. No great writings ever came from innate happiness. They came from feelings. All kinds of intense and meaningful feelings. Something I actually didn't consider until much further down the "path to self discovery."
Today, now that I'm further along the "path," things have changed. As I've pushed forward and slowly learned to let go and really begin to heal, a new corner in my heart has been exposed to the light. My tongue has loosened. The girl I was back then is not the same girl my reflection shows today. Sometimes I think I share almost TOO much which is a humorous concept for someone with my kind of past. There are still scars, of course, as there will always be but like any wound, time and patience (and a lot of forgiveness) will eventually allow me to heal. I still continue to write when I feel sad or depressed but even my writing is vastly different. Ideas are clearer and more defined. Words have become like lacework weaving in and out of each other. I'm finding my line of best fit.
Poetry is different for everyone, I think. In a film I watched recently called Leaves Of Grass, respectively titled after a collection of poems by Walt Whitman, two characters discuss what makes a real poet stand out amongst the self proclaimed poets and in the end they agree to disagree. In other words, we all have our ideas and opinions about what makes a legit writer. Something I've always wondered myself. What is it that makes you a legit poet? What is it that sets you apart?
I still muse at the thought of building up my collection of poems and attempting publication. The idea is still festering into something despite the nagging voice that still flicks me in the ear every once in a while. Are you legit? Are you worthy? As I grow, so does my understanding of poetry's affect and the volume with which these nagging voices have adopted has lessened greatly.
In conclusion to this long winded mini glimpse into my brain, I would like to leave you readers with this. Know thyself. Find your inner voice and allow it to sing.
Mine:
Untitled
Our hearts coincide,
Tiny vessels, interlaced spider webs cradling the deepest of our souls.
Entwined, like veins; thick...
...Thumping, a beat in tune,
Like the ticking tock of a grandfather clock.
A symphony that embraces a single word on the tip of your tongue, sweet, yet still hinged in the center.
Two souls, raveled around each other.
A distant angst, a far away cry, for a name, unknown, for the sake of having someone to hold onto.
But where are you, my true love, like a dull ache in the root of my bones, I wait.
I wait...
Favorite:
I Carry Your Heart
E. E. Cummings
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
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