Lately I’ve been having somewhat of a conflict between the idea of ‘fate’ and attempting to remain rational. I’m terrible at that! Life seems almost too full of wanted and unwanted coincidences and, in turn, it can be difficult to let go when you so strongly believe in a fate despite how it may hold as much accurate prophecy as the apocalypse of 2012.
Hope is for the fools
Whose faith cling
Like a virus under the skin
Where the strongest
Are the weakest.
Fate isn’t a string
Yet, I played it all
On the deck of
I am lost and still losing.
Is that… no… a smile?!
Writing poetry is, for me, the sweetest form of expression.
In what could have been an ordinary English lesson I sat down in front of a small pile of paper which my teacher had already set out for the class. Thinking it was another addition to our ‘wider reading’ I took a quick glance and was immediately dumbfounded when I realised the scripture wasn’t the fine work of some Victorian classic or contemporary genius, rather, it was mine! In turns we analysed my poems as a class and individually- they were otherwise anonymous- and it was one of the finest moments of my life.
Not only was I flattered that my teacher had chosen my poetry to analyse that lesson but because all those lines and words that hold bitter (and even painful) shards of old memories which I had tucked away under the screen of a poem now didn’t bare those burdens. They belonged to a subjective pair of eyes and it was so relieving in a way.
I can remember every reason behind every poem I have ever written- the feelings which had stirred it or the events which inspired it. They are indeed clinchingly haunting in that sense. But in that lesson the words weren’t mine any more… to the people in my class they did not bare the heartache or memory- they were a blank canvas of infinite interpretation and such a transition was alleviating.
It appeared the general consensus from the class was that the poems were written by a hopeless romantic female so perhaps I may need to work on my poetic guise!
Nonetheless, my teacher took a grand risk that lesson as my poems could have received unhesitating criticism; my self esteem as a writer (hah) was undoubtedly, therefore, on the line. I will always be eternally grateful for this.
Never did I fall in love with you. And, though it may be somewhat unwelcome to know, I can not particularly recall falling in ‘like’ with you either. At first I ardently fell for your mystery; a charade, an enigma. I could only conclude your quiet nature was the product of silencing; a mind trapped by infinite unspoken words but muted in world that wasn’t made for them. Then I was struck by the tide of familiarity and found myself attached to what had become conventional in our composition as showcased lovers. My façade became rooted by habit and no longer could I consciously recall the intricate peculiarities which had drawn me to you so ruthlessly; instead I had only the credulous belief that somewhere I loved you as I had believed, in the sincerest of prematurity, so many times before. The final act; realising that there was no mystery to your being. The silence you so characteristically bestow was always merely an echo of your nothing. It was all nothing. Beautiful, corrupt nothing.
Another example of my attempt at ‘creative writing’! I’m not sure I’m quite made for happy tales!
(Here’s me with a butterfly! Excuse the man hands!)