Poetry. This is not a new word, nor one dusted from the vaults of an introverted bookworm’s mind. It is not made-up or thrown up as a spectacle, as some of my words might be. If you love words, independent of story or some crossword endeavor, you get my meaning with that last.
Some words are too lovely to keep in the cabinet with the fine china, never used and scarcely touched. It is not enough to look at them through glass or spend the odd weekend brushing dust from the delicate filigree of the paint.
We must take them out, again and again, delight in every delicate curve, narrate the collection to each poor soul that dares stop by for a visit. We are like the old women in the storybooks, fussing over the war-torn soldier and thrusting dainty teacups into blistered and bloodied hands.
The soldier has no use for the china, only for the tea inside the cup, the cookie on the silver tray, the sustenance couched in the fripperies of an over-enthusiastic host.
It is sometimes hard to remember that the every-day plates are good enough, that they will not chip as easily nor be misunderstood, that sometimes it is best we keep that fine china undisturbed in its glass enclosure.
So, today, and in an effort to bring myself a few steps closer to closure on a task I have largely failed at, we talk poetry.
It’s not a fine china word, but it is a fine china pleasure.
So, welcome, poor sucker, to my blog on poetry. Got ya!
Seriously, I didn’t keep up on my A-Z through October because I was working the Poetry challenge and having an absolutely fantastic time. By the end of October? I was worn through.
Annis Cassells is my personal hero for managing to keep up with both…and then keep going.
Poetry is exhausting.
I don’t usually think of it that way, because, in an especially prolific month, I might pen 4 poems. On the average? Less than. But, in dealing with a 31 day challenge, it emphasized the energy poetry requires. Every word is important. Every sound. The silences between. I spend hours on a poem, sometimes days. I have poems I began years ago that I consider to be unfinished.
Poetry is hard.
I knew this in my head. I knew this in the way one knows that writing in general is hard, that novels take time, that revisions are a pain in the you-know-what.
You know it in that general unconcerned way you think about having to go to work next week or having to deal with whatever your Thanksgiving motif may be. It’s a blurry kind of knowledge, one you don’t fully understand until you’re sweating through your tenth revision, trying to plug that gaping plot hole of doom, jumping at that god-awful Monday morning alarm or panicking over whether your crescent rolls are as good as your mother’s.
My crescent rolls are not as good as my mother’s. FYI.
Poetry is fascinating.
I have not, until recent years, spent a great deal of time reading poetry. Poetry was something I did, but not something I read. I had classes in college, of course. I bought the odd poetry book. That’s what an English major does. But the actual reading of poetry? For the pleasure of it? Very new to me.
And I’m discovering a world of endless variety, snapshot moments, fine china words.
And I think maybe it’s time I stopped trying to foist my fine china tea on other people, instead sit down with my own cup and appreciate the warmth on my fingers.
Blogger’s Note: Not entirely sure where I was going with this…but it felt right and it’s something. Something is always better than nothing…right?