What is poetry?
Is it just words put together in some sort of rhyme or meter? Is it a compilation of metaphors and similes so readers can be annoyed at the indirectness? Is it a dying art? Or is it an unsolved mystery?
As someone who publishes poems often, I get asked how poems come to me and over time I have formulated an answer.
Poems come unannounced. Like unwanted guests but, also like love. Like busy-schedule, no-time-to-write but, also like the first fall breeze that you have to stop to experience. Like absolutely behind on my work but, also like let me embrace all your sorrows for a while. Like the first hit of a tsunami but, also like the calming sea waves that touch the shore. Like the cackle and cacophony of angry birds but, also like the sweet nightingale's song. Like a thunderstorm but, also like a light drizzle. With a fierce “write-me-now attitude” but, also with a smile that lasts long.
Poems come unannounced, yes; they create a pandemonium, yes; but they leave you with a structure of words that were meant to be created just as you did, and that would never cross your mind the same way again. So you pour them out as they begin to fill in because it was just that one time. It won't ever be the same words, in the same form, again.
How do you know which ones to write down?
You just ask yourself: Am I ready to take that chance? The chance that I may never think of these words in the same way again? If not, you go for it. If yes, you wait till they come in a form that you simply can't give up on. Again,
To me, it’s really what keeps me alive. I started writing poems when I was three or four. Sure, they were crappy ones about donkeys and jam, but they were still poems. At that point in time, they seemed like the perfect structure of words and I couldn’t give up on them. So, I put them on paper in glitter pens and decorated them with stickers. I am fascinated with making birthday cards and the best way to know if I really care about you is if I’ve made you a card or not. If I have, it’s probably my most precious gift to you and in my head, nothing material I’d ever buy for you would beat my ever-changing handwriting on paper, embellished with sketch pens and designs. Coming back to the point, I think my parents have some of those cards saved, with my first few poems and I read them sometimes when I go back home and feel like snooping around.
What I’ve always noticed in every card I’ve made, every note I’ve written, or every poem I’ve penned is that I was the happiest at that instance even if I was writing through heartbreak. I am my happiest and truest self when I write, especially when I write poetry. So, when I say it keeps me alive, it really does. Without it, I breathe and I get by, but I’m not alive and kicking whereas with it, I'm more like this.
I think for most people who love poetry as much as I do, poetry will always be alive and you cannot call something dead, if it continues to spread smiles, enlighten social issues and connect with people or even lightens a heavy heart.
However, you can call it an unsolved mystery because even though I am so close to the art form and it keeps me “alive,” I do not understand my relationship with it. I do not understand why the words come to me or why I feel the need to write them. I definitely do not understand why bare trees excite me and broken hearts make for the best subjects but as I say all the time, “I’m a writer by choice, poet by not.” So, is it a live art form mysteriously pretending to be dead?
Yeah, I’m going to leave you with that question and it’s going to bug you but that’s just how poets are, they create a mystery and leave questions unanswered. But maybe, the answer lies in poetry.
Wait, I'm also going to leave you with a short poem by me. You can read the deeper, longer ones on Instagram.
