When I was a little girl into to my early teens I used to write poetry, but only when the moment called for it. I sat in the dark and wrote unseen words; I’d let my pen or pencil drag crookedly across the page, or I’d write in neat lines, depending on what emotions needed to Get Out. It was always fun for me to wake up and see what I’d produced during the night. Not so much the words, but the pattern and shape that they made strung together as cord or as disconnected pieces.
I haven’t done this in years, I actually forgot that I used to write like this. Somehow, during the growing up process, I let go of this ritual.
These past days have felt like a moment for writing poetry (or what I called poetry but was only a word dump). I’ve been holding it in, not writing, not seeing the words. And then I remembered: I don’t need to see the words. I just need to open up and a shape will take form.
So here goes:
A cliché. They say it in books, in movies, on tv.
A broken heart.
A pain that lashes, that rips, that tears, and binds.
A myriad of smells that belong solely to one person.
A voice. Loud. Always yelling. Always caring.
A touch. Fleeting, rare. Hands kept tight, working, not soft, not gentle, not idle.
Of love. Always, of love.
A whole. A unit.
And the bindings begin to unwind. Letting in breath and wind and light.
And then a smile. Of what’s remembered. Of what’s to come.
Blah. So there, it’s out. For now. Not sure why I wanted to do this on the blogosphere, maybe it’s about moving forward, moving on. Maybe it’s about release and connection. I wonder if my words would have been the same if I was writing them for no other eyes, instead of here, when I knew others would read them. Maybe later when I come back and read these words, I’ll see a pattern, a shape, of what I produced, in the light this time. Not in the dark.
This was written in loving memory of grandma, who passed August 16th, at the age of 88.