I used to write. Often. And when I thought of myself being a great writer, the first thing that came to mind was poetry. I secretly have always considered myself a poet above all else. The lost art of combining words in immortal lines that rhyme or don't... Although I am no Shakespeare, poetry was the first form of written art that I began to create. It is my first love.
My first poem, "Untitled" (of course titled such) was the musings of a 6th grader who didn't know much but that she wanted to be like Anne of Green Gables caught up in the ethereal musings of a writer. I think if you ask any person they are most likely to tell you they had a moment in adolescence in which they were a poet themselves. It is how we wrote our life. Our diary. Our story...a lot of times in terrible rhyming form.
But, I digress. Everyone should be a poet. If not of words, then of life. We should do things with a grace that blends our life into a rhythmic beauty. It is the only way to live. Martin Luther King Jr said, "If a man is called to be a street sweeper, he should sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will pause to say, 'Here lived a great street sweeper who did his job well.'"
So, why do I bring up poetry? I don't even write anymore. I haven't written a poem since 2014. I had a creative writing course in college that helped me bleed all the ways I knew how to write. I was challenged. I was encouraged. And, I wrote. A lot. And I loved it. I understand a lot of people don't like poetry. It can be cumbersome and hard to follow. It can be tedious. One thing Andrew taught me was poetry ceases to be for the poet once the words are written. It is then given to the audience to interpret; however, the original intent can't get lost.
I was never a Francis Thompson poet or an Emily Dickenson artist. I was me. I am me. I didn't know how else to be. I wrote, and still do, what bleeds out of my mind onto the page, and most of the time it is very personal. Even though images made up to reflect what I would like to think of as a greater truth, tends to be a mirror for myself.
Below is a sestina I wrote in college. A sestina is a type of poem not unlike a Haiku, Sonnet, or Ballad. Just another form of poetry. The sestina is a 6 stanza poem usually followed by a 3 line envoi. There are 6 repeated words that end each line, and placed in a different pattern each stanza. Why am I sharing this? I don't know. I came across it recently and thought it worth sharing. Probably because I remember how much I loved writing it. This is my version of a coming of age and loss of innocence story. :)
INDELIBILITY
I was born with perfect skin.
And it wasn't until I got my first cut
That I knew I could bleed.
The ground, where I fell, was bitterly cold.
I was young; I became mortal. My innocence--stolen.
It was then I learned this world would bite.
Why would he bite?
I was compliant, but he tore at my skin.
Harder and sloppier with each thrust my womb was stolen.
And even without a knife he found ways to cut
Me and leave me cold.
I just wanted to die--to bleed and bleed...
...and bleed.
The razor I dragged across my arms did bite.
Small and stainless, the steel was always curious and cold.
Line after line my diary became my skin.
To cope and to survive, I had to cut
Because my sanity, my dignity and my life had been stolen.
Kisses I took from him were coyly stolen.
I bit--hard and unexpectedly he began to bleed,
But I lapped his wound sweetly as a mother cares for a cut.
And because sex with him was always a battle, he used his words to bite.
They danced around his tongue and landed on my skin.
And yet while in the dark it was pleasure, with the sun all I felt was cold.
She used first a felt-tipped pen to draw the pain. It was cold.
All the money, in my pockets, was stolen,
Even the fifty dollars to permanently ink my skin.
Over and over the gun pierced--all I did was bleed.
I wanted the word "strong" to cover the bite,
And the word "love" to cover the lines I cut.
I am older now and it's the little things that cut.
Beneath my clothes, my body is always cold.
I'll never know if it's life that tends to bite,
And sometimes I think that all my happiness was stolen
But there's no more life in me to bleed
All I have left is here written on my age-spotted skin.
Never thought my first cut would be innocence stolen,
Nor every time I had a bite, I'd bleed.
Then again, I've learned this world is cold, and always leaves marks on skin.
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