It’s been a hell of a past two weeks. My internship had a whole ordeal that I attended in place of classes for three days, and it was right after a trip to the northern Dzongkhag of Bhutan. I’ve been floating without the typical class routine for a fair amount of time now… and it’s stressing me out. Not seeing the same people I usually do has thrown me off. In this torrent of stress, I’ve tried to find some sort of respite to keep me sane.
Music has helped me a fair amount, a whole topic unto itself. The main support that I’ve been looking at is poetry. Although it’s somewhat inconsistent when it helps me and when it’s just a pain to write, but I still find it a fascinating art form.
For a while now I’ve felt quite keen on diving into poetry. The urge has been a growing seed for the past year or so. I remember sitting around at my student center, with marble white walls and the aroma of fast food, seeing how apt it was that April was poetry month. Without knowing that, I’d taken extra time to fill the blank pages of my notepad with various flowering phrases, many of which I’m sure made no sense at all.
But I often wonder, for poetry, if the words need to make much sense. Whenever I look at any form of art I instinctually magnify each word, looking for any possible meanings or connections. For me, it’s almost better when words crack a bit before fitting together.
“A frail giant flailing like a tigress’s moon.”
That doesn’t seem to make any sense and yet I enjoy the feeling that both writing and reading that gives to me. Not to say that everything needs to be random. The use of poetry as a way of expressing emotions is a powerful, temporary antidote for a wrenching brain. I’ve been latching onto a love of exploration as a way to disconnect from current turmoil I’m experiencing. I won’t delve into it, but I’ve been using poetry and music as an escape. It’s a pretty beautiful window to look out of. It can better encapsulate how I feel about something than more rigid writing can do.
Walking to nowhere on a sunlit path,
my future sleeps on the horizon before me.
And a beauty sits waiting under a pale tree, while warm winds blow upward, pushing me.
To those authors who wield words like gods wield weather, I am beyond envious. I hope that through continual spewing of words in a poetic manner I can reach a similar sort of talent. What a relief it would be to expertly design words to reflect sickening frailty or heel clapping wonder.
Poetry, or simply playing with words, is a gateway to fundamental reflection. It makes me consider the meanings of phrases and unusual words. I get to delve into my subconscious in a way and see what trails my mind will take. Poetic words, like flowers, can make you stop and deeply consider their contribution to life.
And reading your own poetry to others compounds the beauty of it all.
There’s surely something beautiful about words on a page that can be interpreted however the reader sees fit. But when an author chooses to vocalize what they have written it incorporates in the poem specified emotion, timing, and gives immediate vulnerability. This is especially so when someone is new to poetry. The nerves of sharing a wary creation add to the specialness of reading poetry.
I don’t know much about haikus, but the classic 5, 7, 5, haiku is so simple and so complex. It pushes on my usual notions of how to create meaningful phrases.
To whoever is reading, I’d challenge you to sit down and attempt some poetry. It doesn’t have to be good (I’m guessing by many standards my poetry is shit). It just has to be attempted.
Poetry has helped me through this past bit of life, of which any form of support I got left me achingly grateful.
I’m hoping things are on the up, though. As I walk into classes tomorrow the routine should get me settled back into place. Though I fear a pit in my stomach might remain. I’ll just have to keep listening to music and writing poetry, else I’ll go mad.
Mad as the potato that never knew it could see.