I just decided today that one of my new year’s resolutions is to blog EVERY DAY. No matter what it is. Maybe that will break me of the ridiculous habit to write 3,000 word blogs that require multiple sittings to read fully!
I want to explain something to you that is nearly impossible to explain, so maybe that’s a lofty goal for my first-ever short (er) post.
When I started my SIP (which is very close to being complete—I’ll post the introduction on here at some point), I thought I was taking the easy way out dropping the critical half and only writing poetry, instead. Wow, was I wrong.
I could easily have sat down at a desk and pounded out thirty pages of criticism in one week. Poetry is not so simple. Beyond the commitment it takes to see one poem to its actualization (every single word matters, every line break, every millimeter of white space), poems dig. They bring things up to the light that you never even knew about yourself, about the world around you. They grind things into the dirt that you thought were safe.
My life is steeped in poetry. I’ve just about lost the ability to read anything else, because I feel like there is so much poetry in the world I won’t have time to read already, even if I locked myself in a room for the rest of my life. Poetry is not the sort of discipline you can just pick up or put down. There are moments that hit me like a bullet in the chest, and that’s where the poetry comes from. You start seeing the world through poetry—sometimes it makes you want to laugh until your stomach hurts and you finally remember you’re walking around in a body, sometimes it makes you want to cry until you can’t see anymore. The real kicker is that the smallest things can do this to you—music in a subway station, a door taken off its hinges and suspended between two chairs, an un-hatched robin’s egg.
Without it, I think I’d start waking up pulling black rose petals one by one from my throat, suffocating. Life would just start crushing me, and I’d have no way of clawing my way out from beneath its boots.