Once upon a time, I would have called myself a storyteller.
But today, I no longer convene–at least, not on a relatively frequent basis–with the fictitious, the fabricated realm in which ruthless imaginaries bend the laws of reality to their own liking. For now, it is Poetry and Poetry alone that dominates my soul.
I do not believe in many things. For this reason, my mother has always thought my moral compass to be misguided, askew, like the slant of a rhyme. She stands firm in her speculation, especially because I do not believe in god. In fact, the very presence of religion, although I may, at times, appreciate and respect its underlying values, irks me.
And perhaps my mother is correct. For even my Poetry itself is indicative of my loose morality; it is through Poetry that I document my sins, after all. Yet, it is not my lack of faith that makes me a sinner, nor is it my lack of faith that has catalyzed my sins. And, no, I do not believe in many things. But that isn’t to say that I do not believe in some things.
I believe in the things that count.
Things like magic.
And Poetry? Well, that’s the closest thing I’ve got to magic.
Ironic, isn’t it? How I don’t find magic within storytelling, which provides significant opportunity to cultivate tales of, say, a witch’s sorcery, pixie dust, or wardrobes that are capable of transporting us to far off lands. Instead, I find magic within Poetry, despite the fact that Poetry, at least to me, is non-fiction, an unadulterated medium of art through which we may expose ourselves so starkly to the world.
See, Poetry emulates life because it is life that inspires me to write. As soon as my experiences–the sadnesses, anxieties, and heartbreaks–are transposed onto the page, they seem easier to swallow. They become fragmented, estranged by means of stanzas and enjambment. And with every new line break, my breath slows, deviating from its previous rapid convulsions. And what is more magical–more miraculous–than breathing life back into deflated (and defeated) lungs? What is more magical than urging a dejected heart to beat on when all it so badly wants is to stop beating? What is more magical than saving a life?
Because if there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s that no one else–no lover, friend, doctor, teacher, human–can save me. Not even I can save me. But I can write Poetry and Poetry can save me. And, right now, as the universe itself begins to smoulder and collapse in on itself, Poetry is the only sense of consistency I know and, therefore, the only thing I can truly rely on. It’s always there. It doesn’t leave as people often do. And, most importantly, and unlike stories, Poetry doesn’t have to have an ending.
Yes, in theory, a poem can end just as any story can. And, of course, I acknowledge the fact that the impact of a story can live on with us. But once you’ve finished reading a book, once you’ve closed it–that’s it, the story’s over. You can re-read it if you so choose it. But you will never again experience the thrill of living a new story for the first time.
But Poetry is different.
It is defined as “literary work in which special intensity is given to the expression of feelings and ideas.” And emotion? Ideas? That’s the type of shit–the type of Poetry–we live every day, and, just as every day is different, so is every emotion and idea.
Poetry festers inside of you, and once you’ve written it all down–well, that’s when it becomes real. This is how you give it life, and, in return, it gives you life. It reinflates your lungs, places rhythm back into your heart. Most importantly, it gives your life a purpose. It’s like a symbiotic relationship, you see; the poet’s survival depends on the Poetry and the Poetry’s survival depends on the poet.
And that is why I choose to be–why I am–a poet and not a storyteller.
And that is why Poetry is
my fire.
my soul.
my defiance.
My submissions for this month’s poetry assignment:
Typewriter gif. (n.d.). [image] Available at: https://samanthawrites.ca/tag/typewriter/ [Accessed 4 Jun. 2018].
Dear Jade:
I have so much appreciation for the poetry you write and this prose was an interesting delve in the passion you have for it. As someone who is more interested in bending reality to make their own fantasy worlds I honestly did find this to be a refreshing perspective. Your vivid descriptions are as always amazing and make what would normally be just a paragraph about why you love poetry into something so much more personal. I kept finding myself re-reading parts for words I could use in my own stories. While you are writing about your own need to create poetry it is described in such a way which reflects the strong intensive relationships artists have with their own art work in whatever form that may be. This alone I found to be very inspiring to me as I have for the longest time wanted to write something about artistic obsession and it’s sometimes dangerously passionate drive. All in all you can take something from this piece, anything. And that is what made this such a lovely and versatile piece.
Sincerely Reegan =)
Dear Reegan,
As a writer, I feel as though I have a duty to inspire others, as any writer should and must. That is why I am so profoundly grateful that I have been able to inspire you. Thank you for reading and for your kind comment.
Love,
Jade.
P.S. I have so much appreciation for YOUR work. 🙂
‘If you die
before you die,
when you die,
you will never die’
-Jesus
● NOPEcantELOPE.blogspot.com ●
Cya soon, miss gorgeous…