I had a wonderful poetry mentor who used to say, you can’t separate yourself from the poem, not if you want to be writing honest, meaningful poetry. I spent a lot of time thinking about that and wondering if I could really do that, really commit totally to the poem “being me.” It seemed so revealing, almost like standing “emotionally” naked in front of those who would read my poem. On the other hand, it also sounded wonderfully cathartic.
I began slowly, to allow myself to let the poem take me where it wanted to go. I removed all the restraints and protections that would reveal less of who I really was. I suddenly found my poems taking on a life of their own. I would write them, and then go back and read them and discover, I had said something, meant something, revealed something that I had tried to hide, even from myself. My poems explored my life experiences, my loses and failures, my love and my successes and I knew, then, that my mentor had been right. Poetry is not just words on paper. Poetry is you, the poet, stripped to the emotional bone and sharing that with your readers.
I also discovered something else. I discovered that it didn’t matter if anyone read my poem. What mattered, what always matters to the creative spirit, is that I wrote it. That’s true of the dancer, the painter, the singer, whatever creative energy propels you, you are the one, in the end, that you create for.
So, for this lesson, I’d like you to write something down on paper – a word, a few words, a whole line – that expresses something you are hesitant to share with others. Maybe, it’s something you are hesitant to share, even with yourself.
“I am lonely.” “He doesn’t love me.” “I don’t love him.” “I am desperate.” “I am lost.”
Maybe your revelation is even more dramatic than any of the examples. Let it weep or sing on the page. Let it become you and you, become the poem. You will not believe how freeing it is. It is like, after an endless amount of time, putting down an incredibly heavy burden, straightening your back, and moving forward, lighter, and reenergized.
THE FIRST DAY
It is too late some wounds
can not be healed the flower
plucked may yet burn red
a while but as the hours pass
it fades and bends to die
and I who sought to touch
the things you loved and learn
their names grew wide inside
your circle for a time now
I watch the morning
spill across the worn wood
of the windowsill and lie
within the space of a single
breath trying to count
the seconds to eternity
the clock orders me to rise
with certain dread I take
the first step on this first day
I come to know you dead. – Susan A. Katz (All rights reserved – from the collection “On the Edge”)