Next we tackle the world of poetry. I, a writer, despise poetry. I find it dull. Tedious. Unnecessary. And I, a writer, can't do it. So I mask my fear of failure with a lifting of the nose and a rolling of the eyes. But truth be told - and our blog is all about truth, is it not - I'm just afraid of sucking at it. But fears be dashed, we are going to make this happen.
I figured the best poetry is based in strong emotion. So I put myself back on the worst day of my life, which took place a few years ago. I sat alone in my room and tried to remember every facet of that day. Sounds, smells. The temperature of the air. Where I was sitting, and who I was sitting with. The way the blood felt in my veins as I willed my heart to keep beating; not sure if I would survive, not sure if I even wanted to. And then I wrote.
Here's what I came up with. I took an informal Facebook poll - to explain its meaning, or not to explain? - and the consensus was, post it, and if people want to know what it means, they will ask.
Yeah, it's pretty lousy. Yeah, it's completely allegorical. I wrote it out, I went to bed, I figured my project was done. Then I got up this morning, looked in the mirror, and burst into tears.
Now I know why so many famous poets either become addicted to opiates, off themselves, or both. The raw emotion, even in a lousy poem, is overwhelming.
Eight Leaves
In my orchard, I stand at a tree
Young, vibrant-I wonder, when did it grow so?
Budding, stretching, cleaving;
As eight leaves slipped away from its branches
A flutter at my feet.
I bent to pick them up and noticed
That they were dried, yet velvet
Shriveled, yet supple,
Preserved, yet consumed.
I placed my flat palm against the trunk
Strong, firm
Vulnerable, childlike
Brash and arrogant, fragile and broken.
In my hand
Eight leaves in September;
I put them in my pocket as I turned
From the tree of my own planting
And the day was colder for it.
There you have it. Fear, conquered.
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