Tag: poetry

There’s a process

I’ve always thought poetry was self-expression. And so for a long time, whenever I sat down to write, I let my emotions reverberate through my bones, ebb into my fingers, and onto the screen. 

It seemed like the natural thing to do, and any alliteration, assonance, or metre that came with it was an added advantage—a happy co-incidence. Certainly not a concentrated, contrived effort on my part.

Then I learnt my idea of poetry was total bonkers. 

Sure, I still write when the muse takes over my mind and I don’t have to work as hard to string words into meaning. However, I also met people, actual poets, who’ve published in many esteemed places, talk about the process of writing poetry.

There’s a process?

Indeed, there is. From a couple of panel discussions at the Poetry on the Move festival, and from many observations that dawned on me during the weekend, I’ve realised that poetry doesn’t just hit you like a flash of lightening in a storm-studded sky. 

Instead, it’s a conscious effort to twist memory and wring out emotions within, to recollect and relive life instances, of the time we knocked into a tree, too busy looking at the phone, and of the next time we attempted to consciously sidestep the tree only to realise that was gone—sacrificed, cut down for construction.

A poet I heard recently said she needs at least three hours to write one poem. 

That’s when it hit me. Art, regardless of form, isn’t subconscious. It’s meticulous and deliberately delicate.

The world seldom respects that.

Can poetry be true?

When you sit down to write, you write what you see, what you feel. What you think you see and feel. 

When you sit to write, you write your reality—the world around as you know it. The wind tap-dancing on still lake, leaves turning their faces away from the heat, and creeping ants powering through mountains to their anthills.

But reality isn’t always spring blossoms rippling lakes. It’s fear, inequality, and hatred too. It’s about persistently enduring unspeakable acts.

Reality ruffles the mind. Inspires, frightens.

Whether it’s about nature, economy, science, or injustice, poetry stems from real life. 

Poetry stings—triggers tears and fears. Poetry shoves its unbrushed teeth against our faces, sending marred breath down our spines, churning our stomachs, making gruelling truths known.

As fresh grave awaiting body, poetry waits for the poet to fill it up with mangled words pulled from the depths of their heart, real words twisted, anger and love channeled in the right direction, feelings embalmed, and dressed up ready for display in all its grandeur.

Poetry reeks of truth. And in the process of creating poetry, the poet, as folding a dough into itself, digs into themselves, to find truth they never knew was within.

If everything is real, poetry is everything. And if nothing else is, poetry is.

I recently attended a poetry festival called Poetry on the Move. One of the discussions was about reality in poetry. This is what I came up with as I mulled over that topic. Here’re some more thoughts from the festival: What should poetry be?, What’s the value of poetry?, and Labels.

What should poetry be?

Art, creativity, rhyme, rhythm, rule breaking?

Or perhaps… starving artists, writing blocks, free verse, and prose poetry. 

When I think of poetry, I think of moments.

Instances and distances, captured in crisp clean words, sharp as a sword, slicing through inhibitions. Swerving around discomfort, sliding into its oil-smeared language sheath. 

Poetry resounds.

Echoes through chambers, giving voice to gassed creatures, tongueless beings, tortured souls. 

Poetry nurtures.

Comforts the pained, strained, and the maimed. Speaks to innermost feelings, gently, as lathering lotion on sun-scorched skins.

Poetry heals.

Remembers the forgotten, acknowledges slaps and punches that broke the bones.  Respects with solemnity—a bandaid for moving on.

Poetry lives.

Smiles at similes, accidental puns, and misheard metaphors. Thrives in you and me, in sharing of friendship even in darkest of times.

Poetry loves.

Gives a piece of one to another, faithful, unfailing. Opens doors and arms to worlds only believers can imagine.

Poetry… is.

Over the weekend, I attended a poetry festival called Poetry on the Move. One of the panel discussions was what poetry is and what it should be. This is my response, inspired by many interesting thoughts. Some more of my musings from the festival: What’s the value of poetry? and Labels.

What’s the value of poetry?

Ah, that primal instinct to put a price tag on everything. As a product on painted, plastic shelves with curved edges that emit fringes of varnish smell from last year’s spring cleaning, and yet, not quite strong enough to mask the sweat of high-vis employees who’ve rested many a heavy heads and brushed uniformed shoulders against.

As if what doesn’t give material back doesn’t warrant time or effort. As though without return on investment—solid pieces of paper and clinking disks you can trade for something else, you shouldn’t bother at all. For what brings you only joy strips away precious time you can manage in other ways. Creeping seconds on a grandmother clock, hands inching from a number to another—time, that you can do more things with, other things. Time, that you can manage efficiently, effectively in order to make something of it, of yourself, of your time on this what’s left of this round, blue pool that’s melting away in its own time.

As if poetry is another supermarket commodity. As if you can valuate bliss. 

Note: I was at a poetry festival, and the value of poetry was one of the panel discussions. This is my response, inspired by intriguing opinions. 

Labels

“Are you a poet?”

“Er—”

I was attending Poetry on the Move, an annual festival in Canberra that celebrates poetry and poets of the world. A recognised poet asked me that inevitable question. I’d told her how much I’d enjoyed her performance the previous night, and she seemed pleased. Either that, or she was so articulate and polite to acknowledge, without betraying any of the weariness that comes with being a popular poet, with the hundreds of people telling them how great their work is. Oh well, just another day.

Then she popped the question. I was stumped.

I don’t call myself a poet. When I share a piece with my writers group, I say dub it a “poem” or a free-style-poetry-thing. I’ve never felt enough to call myself a poet. Or a writer. 

When people ask what I do for a living, I say I’m a copywriter.

Even though it triggers conversations I’d rather swivel away from, it’s also a digestible way to avoid admitting the twelve hours I spend in a day on a computer… writing. Copy for websites, blogs, articles, ads, and whatnot, gleaning whatever time I can get to write the snappier, shorter stuff that pleases me: self-declared haiku, short stories, and the occasional “poetry”.

“I just—write stuff.” 

The poet smiled, letting it reach her slender eyes, perched elegantly on the edge of her blemish-free face. So unlike my own sunken ones.

She respected my insecurity.

However, she did mention later that we’re all poets, regardless of where or how or how much work we’ve published, introducing me to another as a poet, shooting a thrill down my spine. I smiled and let the statement wash over me, unregistering its impact.

Later, mulling it over, as I do everything these days, I straightened, my gut clenching, the tiniest sense of pride creeping up my face. And I fought to contain the idea lapping my heart: me a poet. 

Do I dare?