Write Me A Poem
I was scanning a bookshelf in my house, deciding what to
keep and what to give away, when I spotted three diaries tucked between a pair of deco bronze bookends of nude women reading. The diaries were old, the bindings were shredded and the Chinese brush stroke covers had seen better days. I had forgotten about them and I felt slightly reluctant as I took the them off the shelf and opened the first one.
A light colored shadow drawing was imprinted on the lined page and the date I had written on the left hand corner was January 6, 1971. That was my 22nd birthday. Unfortunately, it was also the day of the infamous insurrection of 2020. But that’s another story. The trio of books in front of me were filled with poems, hundreds of them that I’d written between 1971 and 1992. I never kept journals that described my daily comings and goings and the strong emotions that occurred in my life like a lot of people do. Instead, I wrote poems. Constantly. Not very good ones. I had no mastery of the written word back then, but there was enough consistency to wake up decades of experiences and feelings in my psyche.
I began to read, remembering people and places that I thought had disappeared from my memory. I had imagined my mind as a hard drive with a set amount of storage space, but as I stared at the words on the pages and the mental images began to take form, I realized that unlike a computer, the mind has no measurable depth capacity. Ideas and pictures live within us for a lifetime, perhaps forgotten but not extinguished because they are always there like Sleeping Beauty, in limbo and waiting to be awakened.
As I read on, I began to see that my ability to recall events had no limits as my words triggered ancient memories. It felt like I was
brushing away cobwebs as I started entering my poems into the computer, traveling back in time to the room where I’d originally written them and to the people I’d written about. When I got over judging my writing as good or bad, it became an astonishing journey to travel along the arcs of my experience. And it was just as astonishing when I drew a blank about a time or place or person who had inspired me to write that particular poem. It was like staring at an old photograph, unable to identify someone who’s standing next to you.
I had read about fifty pages when I suddenly stopped. The upcoming material was focused on a terrible relationship I had endured. I
nearly closed the book and put it back on the shelf. I didn’t want to think about it. But I took a breath, I kept reading and I allowed myself to feel the gamut of emotions that came up. Fear. Guilt. Shame. I had appalling memories of that time and it was no surprise that my writings reflected despair and hopelessness. But what got my attention were the poems in which I sounded happy. I was stunned to discover that there had been good times amid the sadness, fear and disappointment. I had felt love. Why else would I have been
there in the first place? Granted, life had gotten unbearable and getting out sooner than I did would have been a good idea. It would have saved me from a world of pain. But when I realized that I had rejected what was good about that tine and retained what was bad, I had to rethink my memories.
As I read the pages in front of me, it felt like I was betraying myself to recall happy times in a relationship that caused me so much angst and sorrow. But maybe, if I could relive a few good moments here and there, I might give myself a break for not having left sooner. I might not feel the same depth of disappointment for not taking better care of myself. I was deeply wounded during that period and I don’t know for sure if I will ever completely heal from it. But it couldn’t have been all bad because I had written my poems. I had made beautiful leather bags and script covers. I had knit wonderful sweaters. I had spent time with good friends. I had laughed and
danced and told my stories.
I don’t feel the urge to forgive my perpetrator. I’m not that pure or saintly and I’ve heard far too many platitudes about forgiveness,
like “Forgive and forget.” I won’t ever forget and I see no reason to try. But I believe that recalling what made me smile as well as what I regret is a solid step toward forgiving myself for staying too long at the fair.
It’s popular to throw our feelings away and say, “I have no regrets.”
I don’t buy it. Show me someone with no regrets and I’ll show you someone who probably isn’t telling the truth. Or who has repressed feelings so skillfully, they don’t know that they even had them. In my case, remembering what worked along with what didn’t, showed me the undeniable truth. In my experience, seeing all sides of something is the road to healing and I’m grateful that my urge to write poems and then review them five decades later with no judgments is one
more testament to the value of filling up the blank page.
Writing can be a rough road but it can also be a delicious experience. Since I’ve learned so much from my earliest writings, I urge all writers to keep their work whether they think it’s good or bad. That really has nothing to do with it in the long run. What matters is the information their words carry and the healing power that arises when we let go of the one-sided memories and acknowledge the whole truth.
Write Me A Poem
I was scanning a bookshelf in my house, deciding what to
keep and what to give away, when I spotted three diaries tucked between a pair
of deco bronze bookends of nude women reading. The diaries were old, the
bindings were shredded and the Chinese brush stroke covers had seen better days.
I had forgotten about them and I felt slightly reluctant as I took them off the
shelf and opened the first one.
A light colored shadow drawing was imprinted on the lined
page and the date I had written on the left hand corner was January 6, 1971. That
was my 22nd birthday. Unfortunately, it was also the day of the infamous insurrection of 2020. But that’s another story. The trio of books in front of me were filled with poems, hundreds of them that I’d written between 1971 and 1992. I never kept journals that described my daily comings and goings and the strong emotions that occurred in my life like a lot of people do. Instead, I wrote poems. Constantly. Not very good ones. I had no mastery of the written word back then, but there was enough consistency to wake up decades of experiences and feelings in my psyche.
I began to read, remembering people and places that I
thought had disappeared from my memory. I had imagined my mind as a hard drive
with a set amount of storage space, but as I stared at the words on the pages
and the mental images began to take form, I realized that unlike a computer, the
mind has no measurable depth capacity. Ideas and pictures live within us for a
lifetime, perhaps forgotten but not extinguished because they are always there
like Sleeping Beauty, in limbo and waiting to be awakened.
As I read on, I began to see that my ability to recall
events had no limits as my words triggered ancient memories. It felt like I was
brushing away cobwebs as I started entering my poems into the computer,
traveling back in time to the room where I’d originally written them and to the
people I’d written about. When I got over judging my writing as good or bad, it
became an astonishing journey to travel along the arcs of my experience. And it
was just as astonishing when I drew a blank about a time or place or person who
had inspired me to write that particular poem. It was like staring at an old
photograph, unable to identify someone who’s standing next to you.
I had read about fifty pages when I suddenly stopped. The
upcoming material was focused on a terrible relationship I had endured. I
nearly closed the book and put it back on the shelf. I didn’t want to think
about it. But I took a breath, I kept reading and I allowed myself to feel the
gamut of emotions that came up. Fear. Guilt. Shame. I had appalling memories of
that time and it was no surprise that my writings reflected despair and
hopelessness. But what got my attention were the poems in which I sounded
happy. I was stunned to discover that there had been good times amid the
sadness, fear and disappointment. I had felt love. Why else would I have been
there in the first place? Granted, life had gotten unbearable and getting out
sooner than I did would have been a good idea. It would have saved me from a
world of pain. But when I realized that I had rejected what was good about that
tine and retained what was bad, I had to rethink my memories.
As I read the pages in front of me, it felt like I was
betraying myself to recall happy times in a relationship that caused me so much
angst and sorrow. But maybe, if I could relive a few good moments here and
there, I might give myself a break for not having left sooner. I might not feel
the same depth of disappointment for not taking better care of myself. I was
deeply wounded during that period and I don’t know for sure if I will ever
completely heal from it. But it couldn’t have been all bad because I had
written my poems. I had made beautiful leather bags and script covers. I had
knit wonderful sweaters. I had spent time with good friends. I had laughed and
danced and told my stories.
I don’t feel the urge to forgive my perpetrator. I’m not
that pure or saintly and I’ve heard far too many platitudes about forgiveness,
like “Forgive and forget.” I won’t ever forget and I see no reason to try. But
I believe that recalling what made me smile as well as what I regret is a solid
step toward forgiving myself for staying too long at the fair.
It’s popular to throw our feelings away and say, “I have no regrets.”
I don’t buy it. Show me someone with no regrets and I’ll show you someone who
probably isn’t telling the truth. Or who has repressed feelings so skillfully, they
don’t know that they even had them. In my case, remembering what worked along
with what didn’t, showed me the undeniable truth. In my experience, seeing all
sides of something is the road to healing and I’m grateful that my urge to
write poems and then review them five decades later with no judgments is one
more testament to the value of filling up the blank page.
Writing can be a rough road but it can also be a delicious
experience. Since I’ve learned so much from my earliest writings, I urge all
writers to keep their work whether they think it’s good or bad. That really has
nothing to do with it in the long run. What matters is the information they
carry and the healing power that arises when we let go of the one-sided memories
and acknowledge the whole truth.
Write Me A Poem
I was scanning a bookshelf in my house, deciding what to keep and
what to give away, when I spotted three diaries tucked between a pair of deco bronze
bookends of nude women reading. The diaries were old, the bindings were
shredded and the Chinese brush stroke covers had seen better days. I had
forgotten about them and I felt slightly reluctant as I took them off the shelf
and opened the first one.
A light colored shadow drawing was imprinted on the lined page and the
date I had written on the left hand corner was January 6, 1971. That was my 22nd birthday. Unfortunately, it was also the day of the infamous insurrection of 2020. But that’s another story. The trio of books in front of me were filled with poems, hundreds of them that I’d written between 1971 and 1992. I never kept journals that described my daily comings and goings and the strong emotions that occurred in my life like a lot of people do. Instead, I wrote poems. Constantly. Not very good ones. I had no mastery of the written word back then, but there was enough consistency to wake up decades of experiences and feelings in my psyche.
I began to read, remembering people and places that I thought had
disappeared from my memory. I had imagined my mind as a hard drive with a set
amount of storage space, but as I stared at the words on the pages and the mental
images began to take form, I realized that unlike a computer, the mind has no measurable
depth capacity. Ideas and pictures live within us for a lifetime, perhaps
forgotten but not extinguished because they are always there like Sleeping
Beauty, in limbo and waiting to be awakened.
As I read on, I began to see that my ability to recall events had no
limits as my words triggered ancient memories. It felt like I was brushing away
cobwebs as I started entering my poems into the computer, traveling back in
time to the room where I’d originally written them and to the people I’d written
about. When I got over judging my writing as good or bad, it became an astonishing
journey to travel along the arcs of my experience. And it was just as
astonishing when I drew a blank about a time or place or person who had
inspired me to write that particular poem. It was like staring at an old
photograph, unable to identify someone who’s standing next to you.
I had read about fifty pages when I suddenly stopped. The upcoming material
was focused on a terrible relationship I had endured. I nearly closed the book and
put it back on the shelf. I didn’t want to think about it. But I took a breath,
I kept reading and I allowed myself to feel the gamut of emotions that came up.
Fear. Guilt. Shame. I had appalling memories of that time and it was no
surprise that my writings reflected despair and hopelessness. But what got my
attention were the poems in which I sounded happy. I was stunned to discover
that there had been good times amid the sadness, fear and disappointment. I had
felt love. Why else would I have been there in the first place? Granted, life
had gotten unbearable and getting out sooner than I did would have been a good
idea. It would have saved me from a world of pain. But when I realized that I
had rejected what was good about that tine and retained what was bad, I had to
rethink my memories.
As I read the pages in front of me, it felt like I was betraying
myself to recall happy times in a relationship that caused me so much angst and
sorrow. But maybe, if I could relive a few good moments here and there, I might
give myself a break for not having left sooner. I might not feel the same depth
of disappointment for not taking better care of myself. I was deeply wounded during
that period and I don’t know for sure if I will ever completely heal from it. But
it couldn’t have been all bad because I had written my poems. I had made
beautiful leather bags and script covers. I had knit wonderful sweaters. I had
spent time with good friends. I had laughed and danced and told my stories.
I don’t feel the urge to forgive my perpetrator. I’m not that pure
or saintly and I’ve heard far too many platitudes about forgiveness, like “Forgive
and forget.” I won’t ever forget and I see no reason to try. But I believe that
recalling what made me smile as well as what I regret is a solid step toward
forgiving myself for staying too long at the fair.
It’s popular to throw our feelings away and say, “I have no
regrets.” I don’t buy it. Show me someone with no regrets and I’ll show you
someone who probably isn’t telling the truth. Or who has repressed feelings so
skillfully, they don’t know that they even had them. In my case, remembering
what worked along with what didn’t, showed me the undeniable truth. In my
experience, seeing all sides of something is the road to healing and I’m
grateful that my urge to write poems and then review them five decades later with
no judgments is one more testament to the value of filling up the blank page.
Writing can be a rough road but it can also be a delicious
experience. Since I’ve learned so much from my earliest writings, I urge all
writers to keep their work whether they think it’s good or bad. That really has
nothing to do with it in the long run. What matters is the information they
carry and the healing power that arises when we let go of the one-sided memories
and acknowledge the whole truth.
Write Me A
Poem
I
was scanning a bookshelf in my house, deciding what to keep and what to give
away, when I spotted three diaries tucked between a pair of deco bronze
bookends of nude women reading. The diaries were old, the bindings were
shredded and the Chinese brush stroke covers had seen better days. I had
forgotten about them and I felt slightly reluctant as I took them off the shelf
and opened the first one.
A
light colored shadow drawing was imprinted on the lined page and the date I had
written on the left hand corner was January 6, 1971. That was my 22nd birthday. Unfortunately, it was also the day of the infamous insurrection of 2020. But that’s another story. The trio of books in front of me were filled with poems, hundreds of them that I’d written between 1971 and 1992. I never kept journals that described my daily comings and goings and the strong emotions that occurred in my life like a lot of people do. Instead, I wrote poems. Constantly. Not very good ones. I had no mastery of the written word back then, but there was enough consistency to wake up decades of experiences and feelings in my psyche.
I
began to read, remembering people and places that I thought had disappeared
from my memory. I had imagined my mind as a hard drive with a set amount of
storage space, but as I stared at the words on the pages and the mental images
began to take form, I realized that unlike a computer, the mind has no measurable
depth capacity. Ideas and pictures live within us for a lifetime, perhaps
forgotten but not extinguished because they are always there like Sleeping
Beauty, in limbo and waiting to be awakened.
As
I read on, I began to see that my ability to recall events had no limits as my
words triggered ancient memories. It felt like I was brushing away cobwebs as I
started entering my poems into the computer, traveling back in time to the room
where I’d originally written them and to the people I’d written about. When I
got over judging my writing as good or bad, it became an astonishing journey to
travel along the arcs of my experience. And it was just as astonishing when I
drew a blank about a time or place or person who had inspired me to write that
particular poem. It was like staring at an old photograph, unable to identify
someone who’s standing next to you.
I
had read about fifty pages when I suddenly stopped. The upcoming material was focused
on a terrible relationship I had endured. I nearly closed the book and put it back
on the shelf. I didn’t want to think about it. But I took a breath, I kept
reading and I allowed myself to feel the gamut of emotions that came up. Fear.
Guilt. Shame. I had appalling memories of that time and it was no surprise that
my writings reflected despair and hopelessness. But what got my attention were the
poems in which I sounded happy. I was stunned to discover that there had been good
times amid the sadness, fear and disappointment. I had felt love. Why else
would I have been there in the first place? Granted, life had gotten unbearable
and getting out sooner than I did would have been a good idea. It would have
saved me from a world of pain. But when I realized that I had rejected what was
good about that tine and retained what was bad, I had to rethink my memories.
As
I read the pages in front of me, it felt like I was betraying myself to recall
happy times in a relationship that caused me so much angst and sorrow. But
maybe, if I could relive a few good moments here and there, I might give myself
a break for not having left sooner. I might not feel the same depth of
disappointment for not taking better care of myself. I was deeply wounded during
that period and I don’t know for sure if I will ever completely heal from it. But
it couldn’t have been all bad because I had written my poems. I had made
beautiful leather bags and script covers. I had knit wonderful sweaters. I had
spent time with good friends. I had laughed and danced and told my stories.
I
don’t feel the urge to forgive my perpetrator. I’m not that pure or saintly and
I’ve heard far too many platitudes about forgiveness, like “Forgive and forget.”
I won’t ever forget and I see no reason to try. But I believe that recalling
what made me smile as well as what I regret is a solid step toward forgiving
myself for staying too long at the fair.
It’s
popular to throw our feelings away and say, “I have no regrets.” I don’t buy
it. Show me someone with no regrets and I’ll show you someone who probably
isn’t telling the truth. Or who has repressed feelings so skillfully, they don’t
know that they even had them. In my case, remembering what worked along with what
didn’t, showed me the undeniable truth. In my experience, seeing all sides of
something is the road to healing and I’m grateful that my urge to write poems and
then review them five decades later with no judgments is one more testament to
the value of filling up the blank page.
Writing
can be a rough road but it can also be a delicious experience. Since I’ve
learned so much from my earliest writings, I urge all writers to keep their work
whether they think it’s good or bad. That really has nothing to do with it in
the long run. What matters is the information they carry and the healing power that
arises when we let go of the one-sided memories and acknowledge the whole truth.
Write Me A Poem
I was
scanning a bookshelf in my house, deciding what to keep and what to give away,
when I spotted three diaries tucked between a pair of deco bronze bookends of
nude women reading. The diaries were old, the bindings were shredded and the
Chinese brush stroke covers had seen better days. I had forgotten about them
and I felt slightly reluctant as I took them off the shelf and opened the first
one.
A light
colored shadow drawing was imprinted on the lined page and the date I had
written on the left hand corner was January 6, 1971. That was my 22nd birthday. Unfortunately, it was also the day of the infamous insurrection of 2020. But that’s another story. The trio of books in front of me were filled with poems, hundreds of them that I’d written between 1971 and 1992. I never kept journals that described my daily comings and goings and the strong emotions that occurred in my life like a lot of people do. Instead, I wrote poems. Constantly. Not very good ones. I had no mastery of the written word back then, but there was enough consistency to wake up decades of experiences and feelings in my psyche.
I began to
read, remembering people and places that I thought had disappeared from my memory.
I had imagined my mind as a hard drive with a set amount of storage space, but
as I stared at the words on the pages and the mental images began to take form,
I realized that unlike a computer, the mind has no measurable depth capacity.
Ideas and pictures live within us for a lifetime, perhaps forgotten but not
extinguished because they are always there like Sleeping Beauty, in limbo and waiting
to be awakened.
As I read
on, I began to see that my ability to recall events had no limits as my words triggered
ancient memories. It felt like I was brushing away cobwebs as I started
entering my poems into the computer, traveling back in time to the room where
I’d originally written them and to the people I’d written about. When I got
over judging my writing as good or bad, it became an astonishing journey to
travel along the arcs of my experience. And it was just as astonishing when I
drew a blank about a time or place or person who had inspired me to write that
particular poem. It was like staring at an old photograph, unable to identify
someone who’s standing next to you.
I had read
about fifty pages when I suddenly stopped. The upcoming material was focused on
a terrible relationship I had endured. I nearly closed the book and put it back
on the shelf. I didn’t want to think about it. But I took a breath, I kept
reading and I allowed myself to feel the gamut of emotions that came up. Fear.
Guilt. Shame. I had appalling memories of that time and it was no surprise that
my writings reflected despair and hopelessness. But what got my attention were the
poems in which I sounded happy. I was stunned to discover that there had been good
times amid the sadness, fear and disappointment. I had felt love. Why else
would I have been there in the first place? Granted, life had gotten unbearable
and getting out sooner than I did would have been a good idea. It would have
saved me from a world of pain. But when I realized that I had rejected what was
good about that tine and retained what was bad, I had to rethink my memories.
As I read
the pages in front of me, it felt like I was betraying myself to recall happy
times in a relationship that caused me so much angst and sorrow. But maybe, if I
could relive a few good moments here and there, I might give myself a break for
not having left sooner. I might not feel the same depth of disappointment for
not taking better care of myself. I was deeply wounded during that period and I
don’t know for sure if I will ever completely heal from it. But it couldn’t
have been all bad because I had written my poems. I had made beautiful leather bags
and script covers. I had knit wonderful sweaters. I had spent time with good
friends. I had laughed and danced and told my stories.
I don’t
feel the urge to forgive my perpetrator. I’m not that pure or saintly and I’ve
heard far too many platitudes about forgiveness, like “Forgive and forget.” I
won’t ever forget and I see no reason to try. But I believe that recalling what
made me smile as well as what I regret is a solid step toward forgiving myself
for staying too long at the fair.
It’s
popular to throw our feelings away and say, “I have no regrets.” I don’t buy
it. Show me someone with no regrets and I’ll show you someone who probably
isn’t telling the truth. Or who has repressed feelings so skillfully, they don’t
know that they even had them. In my case, remembering what worked along with what
didn’t, showed me the undeniable truth. In my experience, seeing all sides of
something is the road to healing and I’m grateful that my urge to write poems and
then review them five decades later with no judgments is one more testament to
the value of filling up the blank page.
Writing can
be a rough road but it can also be a delicious experience. Since I’ve learned
so much from my earliest writings, I urge all writers to keep their work
whether they think it’s good or bad. That really has nothing to do with it in
the long run. What matters is the information they carry and the healing power that
arises when we let go of the one-sided memories and acknowledge the whole truth.
Write Me A Poem
I was
scanning a bookshelf in my house, deciding what to keep and what to give away,
when I spotted three diaries tucked between a pair of deco bronze bookends of
nude women reading. The diaries were old, the bindings were shredded and the
Chinese brush stroke covers had seen better days. I had forgotten about them
and I felt slightly reluctant as I took them off the shelf and opened the first
one.
A light
colored shadow drawing was imprinted on the lined page and the date I had
written on the left hand corner was January 6, 1971. That was my 22nd birthday. Unfortunately, it was also the day of the infamous insurrection of 2020. But that’s another story. The trio of books in front of me were filled with poems, hundreds of them that I’d written between 1971 and 1992. I never kept journals that described my daily comings and goings and the strong emotions that occurred in my life like a lot of people do. Instead, I wrote poems. Constantly. Not very good ones. I had no mastery of the written word back then, but there was enough consistency to wake up decades of experiences and feelings in my psyche.
I began to
read, remembering people and places that I thought had disappeared from my memory.
I had imagined my mind as a hard drive with a set amount of storage space, but
as I stared at the words on the pages and the mental images began to take form,
I realized that unlike a computer, the mind has no measurable depth capacity.
Ideas and pictures live within us for a lifetime, perhaps forgotten but not
extinguished because they are always there like Sleeping Beauty, in limbo and waiting
to be awakened.
As I read
on, I began to see that my ability to recall events had no limits as my words triggered
ancient memories. It felt like I was brushing away cobwebs as I started
entering my poems into the computer, traveling back in time to the room where
I’d originally written them and to the people I’d written about. When I got
over judging my writing as good or bad, it became an astonishing journey to
travel along the arcs of my experience. And it was just as astonishing when I
drew a blank about a time or place or person who had inspired me to write that
particular poem. It was like staring at an old photograph, unable to identify
someone who’s standing next to you.
I had read
about fifty pages when I suddenly stopped. The upcoming material was focused on
a terrible relationship I had endured. I nearly closed the book and put it back
on the shelf. I didn’t want to think about it. But I took a breath, I kept
reading and I allowed myself to feel the gamut of emotions that came up. Fear.
Guilt. Shame. I had appalling memories of that time and it was no surprise that
my writings reflected despair and hopelessness. But what got my attention were the
poems in which I sounded happy. I was stunned to discover that there had been good
times amid the sadness, fear and disappointment. I had felt love. Why else
would I have been there in the first place? Granted, life had gotten unbearable
and getting out sooner than I did would have been a good idea. It would have
saved me from a world of pain. But when I realized that I had rejected what was
good about that tine and retained what was bad, I had to rethink my memories.
As I read
the pages in front of me, it felt like I was betraying myself to recall happy
times in a relationship that caused me so much angst and sorrow. But maybe, if I
could relive a few good moments here and there, I might give myself a break for
not having left sooner. I might not feel the same depth of disappointment for
not taking better care of myself. I was deeply wounded during that period and I
don’t know for sure if I will ever completely heal from it. But it couldn’t
have been all bad because I had written my poems. I had made beautiful leather bags
and script covers. I had knit wonderful sweaters. I had spent time with good
friends. I had laughed and danced and told my stories.
I don’t
feel the urge to forgive my perpetrator. I’m not that pure or saintly and I’ve
heard far too many platitudes about forgiveness, like “Forgive and forget.” I
won’t ever forget and I see no reason to try. But I believe that recalling what
made me smile as well as what I regret is a solid step toward forgiving myself
for staying too long at the fair.
It’s
popular to throw our feelings away and say, “I have no regrets.” I don’t buy
it. Show me someone with no regrets and I’ll show you someone who probably
isn’t telling the truth. Or who has repressed feelings so skillfully, they don’t
know that they even had them. In my case, remembering what worked along with what
didn’t, showed me the undeniable truth. In my experience, seeing all sides of
something is the road to healing and I’m grateful that my urge to write poems and
then review them five decades later with no judgments is one more testament to
the value of filling up the blank page.
Writing can
be a rough road but it can also be a delicious experience. Since I’ve learned
so much from my earliest writings, I urge all writers to keep their work
whether they think it’s good or bad. That really has nothing to do with it in
the long run. What matters is the information they carry and the healing power that
arises when we let go of the one-sided memories and acknowledge the whole truth.
Recent Comments