WRITE ME A POEM

Photo by Loren Cutler on Unsplash

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 focused on  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.