Wired Minds

 This is what it feels like to be a writer (or a collector of anything).

 

Collection

I started out

with just a pen

the promise of pre-filled space

and my jumbled, tumbled thoughts.

Raucous ramblings reimagined

on paper,

not all my own, some

quips or quotations

careening, cascading,

transferred from mind

to metamorphosed meanderings

making their way to the other side of the lines.

Words dropped with gradual gravity

gathering,

gaps filling in empty pages,

fluttering, flickering,

fears and fantasies entrapped,

entangled,

bound like so many books

stacked unceremoniously on my desk.

Between Homes

 Last Words

Please don’t despise the rain

on my account.

 

 

 

[As you can see, today during my stormy voyage back to school via the interstate, I was contemplating death and concise poetry.]

What we can learn from Kindergarteners

 Observing an elementary class for my education degree was not something I thought I’d find enjoyable, but surprisingly, it’s been a major source of inspiration and general musings for me the past few months. And my takeaway from that is…

…we should all try a little harder to find that inner child.

I mean, little kids are so funny and obnoxious and honest. They always tell it like they see it. They only lie when it amuses them. Like little imps of compressed bluntness and mischief.

And they make great subjects for poetry.

 

Cell-mates

This little boy’s hair

is spiky,

like his personality.

He swaggers past,

returning a scoff

for my smile.

I’m just another motivational poster

on the wall.

But two minutes later,

his sass banishes him

to the red chair in my corner.

 

I feel a grudging kinship

to this boy

and the isolated corner we share,

both watching through a screen,

present, but not participating.

 

Once, many report cards ago,

I was the obnoxious one,

frequenter of that dreaded seat

in the corner.

The evil eye was

my weapon of choice, then,

but by now,

I’ve learned to wear my solitude

like a well-loved sweater,

as a quiet observer,

content in my banishment.

 

He,

on the other hand,

wears gel-spiked hair

full of frustrations.

And having no pen

with which to graffiti the surface

of his desk,

lets fly his stinging arrows aloud.

Happy National Poetry Month!

I’m a little late to the party on this (mostly because I’m lazy), but since April is National Poetry Month, I think a tribute post is in order.

So, without further ado, here is a list of things that poetry has taught me about writing (and life in general).

1. The key is to get it all out the first time. This is a huge struggle for me because of my extreme perfectionism-I always want the poem (or the essay) to be exactly how I envision it, without having to revise. But what I have found is that that strategy kind of sucks the feeling out of the writing, especially with poetry. Sometimes when you want to capture an idea you just have to word-vomit it out onto some paper without worrying about how “good” it is. That way you can go back and tweak it later, but the original inspiration is preserved.
2. Inspiration is not something to be afraid of. When it hits you, go for it. Even if you don’t quite know what you’re feeling or how to convey it with words, don’t let that scare you away from chasing that inspiration. More often than not, the writing process will actually help you get to a point of clarity.
3. Not every word is necessary. I know myself well enough to be aware of my tendency to ramble. Constructing long, drawn-out (yet grammatically correct) sentences is one of my fortes. Sometimes that’s called for, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned from writing poetry (and this goes for prose as well), it’s that you can almost always say the same exact thing with half as many words-making it even more impactful. And being concise forces you to be more choosy with your vocabulary! 
4. Poetry is a really good way to preserve a memory. Like taking a photograph of a feeling. That being said,
5. Not every experience needs to be preserved. Being a poet means you start seeing meaning in all kinds of ordinary and extraordinary things. Life becomes an inspiration. But trying to write everything is not only impossible, but can be tiresome-like posting a picture of your lunch on Instagram every day. Some things are just meant to be lived, and seeing things through a poet’s eyes always enhances the moment, whether or not anything comes from it.
6. Not all pieces are created equal. Some poems are descriptive, some deeply philosophical, some weird, or fun, or kind of pointless. And all of that is awesome. Poetry is about experiences, and different experiences require different voices. I constantly have to remind myself that comparing one of my pieces to another in terms of voice or vibe can be discouraging. And having too heavy a focus on all of your writing being equally meaningful (or silly, or eloquent) just sucks the joy out of the creation. So embrace whatever you write, or do. It’s all you, even if it doesn’t all have the same feel.

This concludes today’s program on Why Poetry Makes Lives Better. Tune in next time for more of my non-sequitur ramblings.

In the meantime, be excellent to each other (and party on, dudes).

What made the difference

 Before my senior year of high school, I thought poetry beyond my reach.

I mean, I’ve always loved writing. Short stories, funny anecdotes, sassy essays for standardized exams, all of that. But poetry felt weird. Like its own separate universe that’s somehow nebulous and very, very structured all at once. It always seemed to me like you had to either be really philosophical or really rhyme-oriented in order to write good poetry, or any at all.

Then I did a study of Billy Collins’ work for my AP Literature class, and that was it for me. I knew I could never be as subtle, as observant, as unaffectedly witty as him (for real, he’s a word angel. Read his poem On Turning Ten and it’ll change your life).

But I enrolled in a creative writing class second semester anyway, because I started thinking, maybe I could do my own thing.

 

But 

I had this really cool creative writing teacher

and she got up in front of the class

every single day

with an arsenal of puns

and way too much pep,

and she made us write poems.

And you couldn’t complain,

because she’d just fire right back

with a confetti canon of sparkles and positivity.

 

Our classroom was basically

a glorified cave,

all cinder blocks and no windows

but who needs windows

when you have a dwarf star for a teacher?

The whole picture

 I had a conversation with a good friend today that made me ponder some things. Things like:

How can two people have such polarized views, yet both be steadfastly convinced that their perspective is the true one?

(Adding to that, isn’t it a miracle how two people can be so strongly opposed to each other, yet still remain good friends after such a long and controversial discussion? Or maybe it’s precisely those disagreements that enable us to BE better friends.)

Where do individuals get their ideas of what is true and what is arbitrary construction?

More importantly, are humans even capable of discovering the truth purely by their own merit? And if so, how could we quantify said truth, or measure its validity against that of another person’s? How could the ultimate truth be realized? Is that even a thing?

Complications abound.

Because if I carefully observe and conclude that the sky is, in fact, purple, but you are staunchly convinced that the sky is actually green, and despite disparity, both of us remain irrevocably persuaded of the validity of our own viewpoint, we might come to the ultimate conclusion that both of us are right, in our own way, and that each individual is responsible for his or her own truth, and that nothing (yet everything) is certain.

I get confused just talking about it.

Which is why I am convinced that there has got to be something else.

I mean, indulge me for a second and imagine a world in which everyone has their own personal truth. And you have to choose your own. You have to trust yourself–who can’t even manage to remember what you ate for breakfast this morning, who really hasn’t even been on the earth all that long–to hold the entire spectrum of existence in your hand and choose from a menu some version of the truth that suits you. And everyone else is either right or wrong, and you might never even find out.

I ask you, what kind of existence would that be? How could you get up in the morning with that weight of responsibility on your shoulders? I couldn’t do it. I’ve tried.

So the natural conclusion is, there has got to be something else. Something that burns inside of us, driving our desire for truth, inspiring curiosity and creativity, engraving love on our souls.

Creativity. Love. How could such beautiful and paradoxical things originate from the minds of humans so small, so shortsighted?

That thing inside of you that screams for expression, that unwritten itch that moves poets and musicians, that fountain of purpose and longing, cannot be credited to tired, colorless beings such as ourselves.

The only explanation is that there exists some great cosmic absolute. An Author who wrote the truth, and impressed it on our hearts, so that we would be inspired to look for it.

Where my heart lives

 I could literally go on for hours about the North Shore and why no human being could conceivably want to live (or die) anywhere else, but to save you time and sanity, I wrote a poem instead.

You’re welcome.

 

Grand Marais

It’s hard to feel like a tourist

in this tourist town.

This quirky jumble of souvenir shops

and theme restaurants

(and one grocery store)

couldn’t be less unfamiliar;

a cool breath of lake air

gives tired buildings life

and I feel

I may as well have lived here forever.

Learning to skim stones

smoothed by countless revolutions of the earth,

wearing my own trails through the woods;

shortcuts to my favorite trees.

Everyone here knows my name,

and whether I take sugar in my coffee,

and how much.

I know their names too,

just as I recall exactly which beach-stranded rocks

are best for seagull

and star gazing.

Just as I know exactly where to look for the sun

as it sinks below ever-rolling waves,

catching one last strand of light

between the branches of distant evergreens.

 

I find my heart on a shore

littered with colored pebbles

as numberless

and named

as the stars in the sky.