Categories
Poems

Untitled

When our eyes first met
Enchanted by your voice
Your beauty and your chaos
Delightful layers
Just a hint of tired
Well-hidden under a smile
I reached out to soothe
What doesn’t appear to need it.

Not aware of our depths
We counted our breaths
How far could we dive?
Again and again
Enough
You called it
We miscounted
The clouds passed
As we resuscitated
And the sunshine
Sun-shone our positions
Unbalanced chaotic
Hurt with every stroke

And now?
We remember without connecting
On standby while we move on
Our story at a standstill.

Categories
thoughts

Writing poetry

Creating art, for me, is almost always an act of catharsis. Poetry is an interesting form of expression: when I am writing it, I am usually in a heightened state of lucidity.

A first step feels like all of my mental faculties are working simultaneously on extracting a lived experience.

A second step is more challenging: translation. Taking the language of memories, emotions, thoughts, sensations, et cetera, and finding words and phrases that validate them.

In that way, art (in this case, poetry), is like a vessel that contains more than just its author’s creativity, time, and literacy. It is like a vessel that contains a microcosmic view of the author’s particular experience of their world.

Unfortunately, poetry is not as readily accessible to an audience as, for example, a song, especially in the way that the author intended it to be received.

Insomuch as that may be the case, is it not a beauty of poetry that it elicits different interpretations from different people? All of whom are reading the same work, but each of whom connects with the poem as per their own lived experiences?