I read a lot of poetry… some good, some bad. I know, that’s a fairly controversial comment, considering poetry’s subjectiveness; but a statement I stand by.
Have you ever read a poem and just thought… well, thought a million things; but, your tongue feels heavy, too heavy, and you’re unable to say anything.
I’m struggling trying to remember the last time a poem left me speechless…
I want to say maybe the first time I read Keats, or even Qubbani. Having said that though, despite my having fallen in love with their words, I doubt it left me speechless.
I’ve spoken of M on here before, and alluded to our habit of sending each other our own poetry for reassurance, comments, and suggestions. My favourite poem of his was one he’d wrote after I’d complained about him merely building on the mountain that Odysseus’ voice holds. He wrote then a poem in response to his initial one, this time giving Calypso a voice. I admire his writing anyways; but I think it was that he’d given her a voice that made me love it so much more.
I’ve used the past tense in talking of that very poem… because you see; it is no longer my favourite. He sent me this poem today, and I found myself left speechless.
I usually express my love of something by saying that it’s “pure poetry”. How can I use such a phrase against this poem, when it so clearly transcends all other works of art I’ve dwelt on.
He gave me permission to blog it, and for that I’m so thankful. This needs to be seen.
Trauma. Triumph. Trivia.
Three words. We had to choose one to describe our first term teaching….
I went with trauma.
I tried something new. A new way of writing… something totally different to the way I usually write. M writes quite like this and when he first started sharing his poetry with me his lack of punctuation used to ‘unnerve me’ as I’ve previously told him. You see I like structure in my poetry. I create control with my use of very specific punctuation. I dictate when you pause, when you stop, when you slow down, when you speed up, and when you breathe.
But this poem was different… when I wrote this one I felt as if I had no control. I’d given it all to ‘him’.
I resent myself for having done that.
I’d given way that control and I wanted the poetic structure to mirror that lack of creative control. Hence, no punctuation.
It’s not a style I’m used to nor is it a style I like very much. If anything consider this poem a mere homage to M’s way of writing.
My anger is towards myself; for just how long I’ve allowed this to continue. I say I am a feminist. I say I am stronger than all this bullshit.
I am not.
I’m a liar and a fake.
I fall to easily, too quickly, and too hard.
You’ve broken me.
How dare you. How dare you trick me. How dare you fool me. How dare you make an absolute mockery of me.
I opened my soul to you. You know everything about me. I thought you were different.
I wasn’t asking for you to love me. I never would have. I just wanted you to be sincere. I was happy just being your friend… but you couldn’t even give me that. You had to make me a mere thing to play with.
I would have to disagree. I’m not metaphorically deep… I’m fucking damaged.
I sat at my desk today… I’d just taught my Y9s and I sat there with this fire in my bones. Within my marrow was the burning desire to write.
I knew not what to write but I just knew I had to write. I sat there and stared at my hands.
My beautiful amber ring. This beautiful stone from another time. This beautiful stone I carry on me at all times.
Yes. That is what I’ll use I thought.
I, like most days recently, have been struggling creatively. Unlike every other time when I’ve been feeling that crushing weight of ineptness, I choose not to do an autonomy poem. Instead I asked M for inspiration. Give me a Greek/Roman myth to write about I told him. Dionysus was the first that came to his mind. Little too late, for I’ve already exhausted Dionysus’ influence in previous poems.
Pompeii he then says.
I’ll admit technically he’d not given me what I’d asked for as Pompeii isn’t a myth; but forgive me for making it sound like he didn’t know that. He does. He’s very much on the same wave length as I am and does indeed have extensive knowledge on ancient classical texts.
But you see… he gave me something and it lit a spark in my mind. And so, I give you the cinders that are left from the fire that blazed from his spark.
EDIT: originally the poem had no title – this didn’t sit well with me and it meant I was up late tossing and turning over how it felt incomplete. So I’ve given it a less obvious title. The year the eruption happened.