Between the years of 1995-2005 I wrote thousands of poems. Mainly, terrible poems but that's besides the point....poetry was an important part of my life. I wouldn't have advertised it to my friends or family at the time, but I thought of myself as a poet.
I wrote poems about forlorn love, feeling lost, poems about the meaning in life, figuring out my identity, love poems, silly poems, poems about how life didn't have a meaning, political poems, religious poems, weird poems, poems, poems, poems. Between 1999-2002 I wrote almost every day, sometimes for over an hour of me just typing away. Basically, poetry was my daily therapy session.
Somewhere between getting married and having our first child, I lost touch with my inner poet. I wasn't an angsty, aimless, regret-filled young person any more. I was fulfilled emotionally and professionally (in surprisingly short order). Life was busy and great and I turned to other artistic endeavors.
Over the last ten years plus, I painted abstract paintings, did some collage work, painted art from comic books or children's books, created a fake band on MySpace (collage/cut and paste) and even tried to write a novel (well that still might happen someday).
From time to time I would write a poem for my beautiful and understanding wife. And even less frequently, I would find myself inspired to write a random poem down. But the truth was I wasn't a poet anymore.
Something's been welling up inside of me over the past few months and I've been writing poetry again. Not as frequently as in the past and definitely not consistently but there's been a change. It started back in Northern Ireland at Corrymeela and it's continued in part by teaching my Introduction to Peace & Conflict class.
In Lederach & Lederach's excellent When Blood and Bones Call Out, it is revealed that poetry is more discovery than creation.
“In the everyday poetry is in and around us, but becoming
poetry requires noticing….People begin to take notice of things that have been there
all along and then rise from the noticing towards something that takes shape” (Lederach & Lederach 175).
This helps re-frame the whole idea of "writing" poetry. If we're doing it right, poetry is really just articulating what's already there. The pressure is off "to create" and the mind and heart is open to describe what is there. All this is to say I am excited to discover the poetry that's been swimming inside my head and heart the last few years, months, weeks, etc.
So, as you might imagine, this post is about building up to more poems.
I decided to show the documentary, The Interrupters to my Peace & Conflict class a few weeks back. The day before I showed the film, I was writing my notes down as I watched the film. Something screwy happened with the closed captions. The captions became stuck on just one phrase:
"a stake that they can
hold onto"
I believe the context was one of the interrupters was speaking about a group of young people who needed something to hold onto (in place of violence). I turned the CC tab off and then back on again and that seemed to do the trick but sure enough a few seconds later, the old phrase, "a stake that they can
hold onto" popped back up. Every few minutes I would have to turn the captions on and off to get the phrase to disappear.
Eventually, I just got used to it and watched the film with out captions. But that phrase was still just sitting there, seeming to weasel its way into my brain.
"a stake that they can hold onto"
What do we hold onto exactly? Aren't we all trying to hold onto something? That's where this poem came from, it was already there.
Eventually, I just got used to it and watched the film with out captions. But that phrase was still just sitting there, seeming to weasel its way into my brain.
"a stake that they can hold onto"
What do we hold onto exactly? Aren't we all trying to hold onto something? That's where this poem came from, it was already there.
A stake that they can
hold onto
It seems all humans need
is something to hold onto
A something to hope for.
Something to be.
How can we find our voice?
Where is our place?
Some will
Endeavor and discover
Fight and bleed
Dying for their place
Dying for their voice
Others will read, hope and dream.
Where will you find the place where you can
just be?
Let the dead bury their dead and find that stake to hold
onto.
A week later I wrote another poem at my desk. Inspired by some piano music on Youtube as I graded. It just came to me. My only comment is that sometimes I'm the artist but most of the time, I'm the drop.
Drip
Drip
Drip
Drip
Drip
I paint some abstract bullshit
I watch a drop of paint as it drips down the canvas.
It falls, unaware of its existence
unaware it is drawing ever closer to the end...
It’s journey ends with a thud
Off the canvas
to the floor.
A stain,nothing more.
