I discovered writing through poetry. Mostly because it was short. I don’t have all the words, so it worked. I dropped it when I stopped thinking I’m a beatnik. Some time shortly after college. Probably when I quit smoking and stopped reading Catcher in the Rye a few times a year. It was also when I got married. I probably stopped when I thought I had it all figured out. As if I will ever have it all figured out.
I started writing poems again this weekend. Inspired by a book I’m reading, the poetry fell out of me and into my idea notebook. None of it is any good, as most poems tend to be when one hasn’t written any in about ten years. But they keep coming. And I’m not stopping them.
That’s the thing about poems. They have their own little life. One that sort of falls out. All you have to do is catch them. And not stop. Then edit.
The other thing about poetry is how much room they leave. In this time of doubt and faith and all the feelings in my life. A time of too many answers. I’m tired of all the answers. I want space. I want my words to open my world, not close it. I want to watch my feelings take flight and take me somewhere between dream and reality. Somewhere in a not figured out space.
So, for now, I’m writing poems again. Just without all the cigarettes this time.