When I was a child, I was told that my father wrote poetry. Strange poetry, my mother said, that no one can understand. He’s not very good, she said. It’s all just very strange.
I never really knew my father. I never read his poetry.
Yet here I am, writing strange verses. They aren’t very good, I am sure my mother would say. Because it is all very strange, and no one understands them.
Yesterday I pulled a couple of poems out of my bag, and actually showed them to someone.
She stared at the words on paper, stared and slowly nodded.
“This… sure looks like poetry to me,” she said. ” I mean I don’t know anything about poetry, but this looks like it.”
Hardly high praise, but it’s enough. Considering what pieces I chose a perfectly valid response could have been “This is gibberish” or “What have you been smoking?”, so that it’s even recognizable as poetry is a bit of a victory.
The words fall short, though. To call the pieces ‘poems’ feels entirely inadequate. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that few would understand them either, though a sad fact it is. Regardless of what you think of the result, I need to keep writing.
Words of mine, though not my own. They are important.
Me: Oh but come on!
Also Me: What?!
Me: Don’t you act all innocent now, you know what I mean. What the hell are you writing?
Also Me: Poetry.
Also Me: Prayers.
Also Me: There is magic in it as well.
Also Me: Yes.
Me: WHO WOULD READ THIS?! IT IS NONSENSICAL!
Also Me: IT IS NOT NONSENSICAL AND YOU KNOW IT!
Me: Well yeah but… but…
Also Me: Shut up.
I find myself writing odd poetry. Heathen poetry with a sprinkle of spell work, in a style I have not touched before. It feels right. It feels like I don’t care if people understand it or not, weird or not it is just as it should be.
It’s an interesting feeling. When being able to let go of what is normal and ‘correct’, and instead finally coming to express raw meaning.
Yes, I like this.
Spinning, spinning, it’s spinning.
Try to step off the ride.
Try to not get caught in the spin.
When you run with the raging whirlwind
reality gets blurred and
even clear minds and good hearts
get caught in Twisted Visions.
Try to step outside.
It is the only way to see
what really is.
The book, yes that one there
with yellowing pages and rugged corners.
Pick it up, hold it.
Feel the cover beneath your finger tips.
Feel the lumps and bumps of time.
Open it up to the very first page,
At the bottom of the page
merely one word.
See the message repeat on page after page.
After a hundred and one pages,
will you understand?
Everyone should have at least one friend,
and actual friend,
who will shake their head and say “No!”
“No, I don’t agree with that.”
“No, I don’t believe that.”
“No, you’re wrong, because — ”
Everyone should have a friend whose opinions and beliefs
differ from your own.
Even in matters that will shock you,
that will make you want to shout and snarl,
yes even the matters you are absolutely certain of.
Be grateful of those that challenge your views,
for through honest discussion will you understand
as much about yourself as about the other.
Be grateful of those that respect you enough to be honest,
even when you disagree.
Be grateful of those that can speak, and argue, and disagree,
and still remain a friend.