It seems to me that nowadays I spend so much time putting ideas together to tell a fetching story or express myself prosaically that I’ve forgotten one of my original first loves: Poetry.
I started avidly writing poetry for a single reason: catharsis. Very few things can get that burden off your mind than committing it to paper in a stanza or two, trust me. Since 2003 Poetry became my favourite medium of expression and though I have no diary (or do I? 😉 ), flipping through my first poetry book takes me on a trip of wry smiles down memory lane none but I can understand.
Poetry is not supposed to be obscure or confusing, boring or necessarily repetitive – and of course, rhyming is only optional. Poetry is supposed to make you feel something – whether a subtle joke or profound twist of truth, or just whatever you’d have picked up by the last line.
But I think what freaks me out the most about poetry is that the best kinds are open to interpretation and can even end up telling you more about the Reader than the Poet!
So let me know what you think of this untitled poem I wrote way back in 2007 in the comments below. What do you see? What do you hear? What do you feel?
I don’t like it
It’s overly invasive
No boundaries to this one
It burns down bridges with fire
Knowing I would keep them no matter what
And rebuilds them in stone
After I’ve mourned my loss
Whisks the reins of my life from my own hands
Makes me the horse
And not the rider
Rearranges life for me
Brick by steadfast brick
Till my home is mine no longer
I’ve tried everything
Sleep, drink, skirt, brawl
All for nought, nought, nought!
I’m at my wits’ end
This nick sure will hurt more than a little
But I need my sleep
Just a short prick
And I’m done!
So here goes
I hope I survive this
I’ll cut you out, that I will