This Week’s Word & Thought: Poetry

As someone who loves the arts, creative endeavors, the written word especially, and pretty much any form of non-violent expression of the human state, I believe we neglect segments or genres of the arts.  Art is this dynamic reflection of society at that moment in time.  It is a combination of the current life struggle, of the stresses of daily life, including work, family, friends, money, society, etc., etc.  It reflects someone’s self being.

Poetry is one of the most wonderful tools of expression for a modern society.  It has also evolved a great deal since its inception before actual literacy and was used to communicate oral history, genealogy, and law.  Checkout this Wikipedia on the History of Poetry.  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_poetry

The attraction to me is the brevity of poetry.  Its mission to poignantly express an idea, feeling, or state of being. My professor of creative writing while attending university would tell me, “If you can’t say it in one sentence, you never will be able to write poetry.”

I have enjoyed many poets over the years.  My favorites include Maya Angelou, Robert Frost, Alfred Lord Tennyson, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, W. B. Yeats, just to name a few.  There are so many favorites!

But when was the last time you read poetry?  Have a completely quiet morning, meaning no television, computer, phone, etc., to distract, and just read poetry?  Maybe some light music or outside to listen to nature and a cup of your favorite coffee or tea?  A bit of “you-time” to relish in a bit of someone else’s thoughts.  A rare and privileged glimpse into their being, soul, spirit, energy, or whatever you wish to call it.

While researching modern poetry simply because I wanted to see what was out there, I kept coming back to slam poetry.  I have also listened to shows about slam poetry and I am usually blown away by its power and timeliness.  It has a raw and real-life quality to it that makes it relevant and moving.

I stumbled upon a young poet whose work is nothing short of moving and powerful.  His work deserves to be read, listened to, shared, and most importantly, felt.  I am not sure of his “real name”; however, he goes by Digital Poet.  Here is a link to his website “about” section.  Someone you could pass on the street or see anywhere with all this wonderful talent.  http://www.digitalpoet.net/about.html

Here is one of his poems that is probably my favorite.  It is very relatable for many of us with our internal struggles to be a more authentic version of who we are or want to be.  I hope you enjoy and I hope you take time to look at the rest of his work.  Art in our society is what truly allows humans to be more than just alive.

I Am The Me You See...Now

I am only the me that you see.

Standing here,

Average everything.

An eye witness couldn't pick me out of a fuckin' lineup.

A chameleon.

I'm not particularly tall

Or short enough to joke on.

Look-wise,

I fall somewhere on The Pitt-Pacino spectrum.

I'm not too built

But I ain't frail,

Voice isn't deep,

Nor too shrill.

No noticeable scars,

At least not that you can see.

Just,

Average everything,

But average is only flesh deep,

The real tattoo is

Beneath the outer sheath,

In this heap,

This concrete reef

of  hardened,

Crystallized,

Protected,

Hidden...

Darkness.

It's a poem.

A poem I've been writing inside for years,

But it has no words.

It has no words,

So I can be the me that you see.

Let me ask a question.

Have you ever taken a 2-Liter Coke,

And shook it with all your might,

But not opened it?

Then just watched the bubbles,

Enraged,

Confused,

Violent,

Completely untempered and without direction,

They have no release,

No escape

and no control.

See inside,

Beneath my surface,

A ruthless carbonation scrambles

Like field mice at night,

Always in jeopardy.

Inside,

There's a poem that I just cannot write.

It's been writing itself for years,

But the worlds won't transcribe.

It's a can of worms,

A Pandora's box,

A real fucking doozy.

Inside,

A phantom haunts my opera.

There's a poem that I just cannot write.

It's been written,

But not scribed,

I've imbibed It,

Lived It,

I breathe it,

Silently,

It silences me,

And controls every moment,

Untraced,

So that I can be the me,

That you see.

The words to this poem,

Change everything.

The entire trajectory of my existence

Would be thrown off its cosmic path,

My planet would crack on its axis,

The dreams,

Of people mistakenly hiding behind my facade,

Will shatter to waxes.

I must keep being the me that you see.

This poem I've been writing

Is one of both truth and lies,

One of deceit,

And ultimately its about making a decision.

The decision to release Infuriated demons

That lerk so superficially close to the skin's surface,

Even I

Am amazed they don't seep.

This poem,

This poem that's been writing itself with no words for years,

Is a mistake.

It is secrets revealed,

Which,

According to some,

Might mean I'm being healed,

But even the best medicine has side effects.

This Necrophiliac poem eats at my insides,

I'm internally lifeless,

Eternally frightened,

don't know what life is.

But I cannot write this poem.

I shouldn't even write about having this poem,

This poem that I cannot write.

See, I am only the me you see right now.

But if the right letters

Appear in the right succession,

If the words I fear

Are written and read in

a certain direction,

This poem would materialize.

If this poem materializes,

I have

No more poems.

There are no more words.

I am no longer the me that you see,

No longer average.

And no longer hidden.

If you wish to draw, paint, write, sing, etc., then do so!  Let your inner self fly, even if it’s a little freaky or raw.  Just be you.

Namaste,

Tom