What writing poetry means to me

See my thoughts on why I love writing poetry and why I think I am a poet.

I often think about my poetry as the unconscious me manifesting in rhymes.

I don’t have to think about it too much because the experience of writing a poem is so deeply rooted in my inner core at this point, that if I wasn’t calling myself a poet, I’d deny this huge part of myself that I can’t live without.

I don’t often read poetry from others, which is, admittedly, a habit that I probably should pick up better, but I did do an English degree so I have a pretty rounded knowledge of what I am doing, and how everyday influences can come to aid when it comes to my writing.

What they can’t teach you in school though is what way you will word your own work and how should you find those ‘in the spur of the moments’, which I often find so valuable. That is where the experience and experiments of the past will come to my aid.

The immersive experience of playing with words doesn’t come from practise necessarily, nor will, nor from assignments, I’ve been given. Rather, it comes from my inner need, the need of what demands to break out of me, and how my soul is manifesting in the different words in the most peculiar order that will sometimes rhyme, sometimes not, and that will forever carry a poetic piece of me.

It will not always be a perfect end product but I know that I hardly ever edited any of my work. That is because the time of creation, once the poem is on paper, is done right there and then. The moment’s passed and all is said and done.

The best way I could describe it with a metaphor is this: Poetry is like a waterfall. You can’t stop the water to flow any more than you can stop time passing by, no matter how well you rehearse the will and apply the wish. It will not stop. Water is also one of those elements that are able to get through anything and shape landscapes of any kind. It comes, it stays, it disappears. That’s not just the miracle of it but also its beauty. So, again, once the work is done, it is shaped as it was meant to be.

So what does poetry means to me? When I can’t make sense of things, poetry is my expression. My guide, my relief, my friend, and my explanation.

I never know or recognise that I wrote what I wrote. I know, and of course I remember the act of creating the work, but as I said, mostly it’s a separate entity that overtakes me and I give it my whole being so it can be expressed through me.

Poetry writing is a missing piece of me when I can’t access it.

I’d highly recommend it to anyone, especially in these times, as it is the single most rewarding occupation.


Click HERE to see how to get started as a beginner.

Look out for more posts that are coming soon.

Until then, may we always have satisfying conversations.


If you liked this post, don’t forget to like and until the next time, may we all have satsfying conversations.

Szabina

Roaming Unknown

We went for a long walk around the neighbourhood and it inspired me to write about what I saw. The style is inspired by my favourite poet, William Carlos Williams, and the stream of consciousness style.

hand in hand we're roaming the territory
craving new sights to gain for clear victory
over unchanging unglorified earthling's feelings
wanting to reach new heights and revealings

how did we get to this archway?
stone unwashed grey and in no way
can you find that the road will lead to where
you may not find enough care to share

after all, that forest was not there before
and that girl at the bottom of the pit can't sore
lower that the ground; she hides beneath the bushes
no matter what caused the pushes

of the wind from the wrong direction
and behind her dark hair hides a pale complexion
tells us to move on don't look don't talk don't do
anything that I wouldn't.

green vegetation sinks the sun
freezing the air with it until snow is spun
out of nowhere now that's unexpected
reflecting on the losing strength in legs objected

yet homeward we must go even if more adventure
awaits new discoveries yet to be made by our amature
eyes of restricted times as we are decreased
to short spurts of the moment until we're on again at least.