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

Wander-ing

Poetry about life given, lived, reserved, presevered.

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thought of clouds blown into shape over green meadows
 riveting in the maddening circle of white haze
 it never stops it never robs
the people that gaze at it

thought of ruffians hiding in the bushes of life
making sure that you and I will not go through life
without pain in it
- silvery hair slithers around fake bits

thinking of now and when the noon settles below
not realising how it's behind the sun
rating it's proud fun as dismissed strength
- bliss even if there's bitter

wandering 'round the life that we got 
jointless craving of another's done
doubting the facts of one's own bun
written in stone - nothing is gone

wondering about new things to come
mustering breath for when freedom will begun
wondering of how will irony become
clouds blow out of shape - will be pun.

Would love some feedback, so let me know what you thought of this poem in the comments below.

Thanks, Szabina @ Curiosity Corner Dublin

Light in darkness

Poetry written by Szabina @Curiosity Corner Dublin

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where does the bird fly when it's wings are restricted
prepared to fail yet hoping the best is yet to be inflicted
roaming the earth for views yet to be earned
soaring through time, the likes of which never been heard

laughing in the face of danger those others are
yet our bird sees behind their masks and far
beyond the unseen sheds of tears
longing to free them of their fears

synonymous salty enrapturing sacks of sorrows
stealing all the more of the tomorrows
little bird's up and sees it all on their cruising
wanting to stop and halt the bruising

it's hopeless, isn't it?

yet in the darkness a flickering light, some hope
in pandora's box can be found somehow, helps to cope
stunning eruptions of reminders of better days

not to turn back to but to reform.