a release

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 memory.

Almond eyes.

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.


A memory.

Of love. Always, of love.

Of life.

A life.

A whole. A unit.

A goodbye.

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.

10 thoughts on “a release

  1. When it comes to poetry, I look and I listen. Poetry is much harder to write because it requires the absolute perfect word choice, proper placement on the page (unless you are talking about spoken word poetry), and a tonal quality akin to music.

    The alliterative A at the beginning and end feel like, for lack of a better expression, a sandwich. (‘Bookends’ would probably be a better word choice.) There is a sense of enclosure, a completeness of thought.

    The line lengths cause the piece to be read quickly, alluding to the one word that grabbed my eyes: Fleeting. Grandmother’s 88 years do seem that way because life is all too short.

    It is a lyrical piece that might be able to use a few more descriptive words (without weighing it down and causing it to be read slower). I hope you find this helping you in your fiction.

    1. yeah, you’re right–this isn’t poetry, it’s just a word dump.

      thanks for the feedback HB. This was just a drop, a nothing, a release. Perhaps it wasn’t fair of me to send something out that had no thought or refinement to it–ti was just something I needed to do.

      She’d been a big presence for me during my entire life but it does feel fleeting. perhaps because of all that’s come without her. such is life and death. Thanks for the comment.

  2. So sorry to hear about your loss Jennifer. Robert, Natasha and I wish to convey are sincere condolences on the passing of your grandmother. Please extend our sympathies to your Dad, Jason and Stacey, and know that you are all in our thoughts and prayers.
    Sharon xo

  3. So sorry for your loss, Jennifer. It matters not what age they are when they go, we still miss them. Turning to words is a good way to release those feelings. *hugs*

    1. Thank you, Laura.
      Words help, a release of any sort helps.
      It’s interesting because the words keep forming,..I guess thats what my brain automatically does with experience and emotion.

  4. I’m sorry for your loss, Jennifer. I understand these were words and phrases you wrote without conscious form, but it’s obvious there is a poem within them. I’m glad the pain that binds then releases to a smile, a memory, and a hope.

    1. Hi, Linda. It was the best of sad and hard times, if that makes any sense… Thanks for reading & understanding, I hope your writing is going well & I’ll be back around in the swing of things shortly.

  5. Terribly sorry about your Grandma, Jenn, my thoughts and love go out to you during this difficult time.
    And please don’t refer to your poem as a word dump. It is a beautiful ode to a special lady.
    I will refrain from mentioning names for fear of contention but please don’t pay attention to the intellectuals commenting on form and what not. This was meant to be emotive and it was. It came from the heart and that’s all that matters.
    Hugs xox

    1. Thank you so much, Nisha! For some reason right now, the heart feels locked. Perhaps it’s too soon to let it out, to let go.
      I appreciate your comment a lot–it did come from a place of love, and in the moment the disjointed words were exactly as they were supposed to be. Not a creation, only a release.
      Hope on your end the new and first novel is going well!

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