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.