If you say "it's not a poem" perhaps you can still say what you need to say without being judged as a poet

While trying to get myself into the right frame of mind to switch to the next project - a project I quite like, it must be pointed out - and struggling to do so, I remembered a photo I took this summer. Curious, I opened the folder where this set was stored. Locating it, I realized that while the original was fairly pleasing to me, today I desperately wanted it to have some more color than I was looking at. Easy enough. Bam! There's your color.

But when I looked at my newly colorized photo, I suddenly wanted to add words.

Which I did.

Only those words read a bit like a poem.

Those who have known me long enough know that I don't write poetry. In fact, I go out of my way not to write poetry. There's a good reason for this. I would starve if my ability to write poetry were in any way linked with my ability to craft a good poem...much less if I had to do this with any sense of regularity.

After I realized it seemed like I was writing a poem, against my better judgement, I also realized that I hated the way this image looked once it had been marred by the letters that were laid overtop of it. So I took the words away and I'll add them here.

But this is not a poem. I hasten to point out this assertion as many times as I can work it in, here, because it's important that you know.

Meanwhile, I wondered if the fact that I was suddenly feeling angst-ridden and pensive had anything to do with the Ani Difranco music that was playing while I wrote. It's not her, of course - her music is actually quite appealing to me some days. Just not this day.

Now I'm listening to Twilight Zone by Golden Earring. Loudly. Apparently the change in tuneage is also affecting my creative ability. Yay. So much so that I think I'll start the song over again, turn it up even louder, and get to work on that site's design revisions.

Happy Friday, peeps!

The Other House: Not a Poem

You went back there
and some things
were exactly the way you
remembered.

But some things had
changed far too much.

So you poured buckets
of paint over
what you found now
and looked for pretty
words like “texture”
and “contrast”
so that you could
make new memories
that would be as satisfying
as the earlier ones.

And then you left,
with those pretty new memories
tucked into your pockets.

And forgot all about it for a long, long time.

Comments

[Shannon L]

That poem isn't just beautiful; it is profound and I thank you for sharing it with us today.

[Mom]

I finally got on line. If this is what I think it is--how did you do it. The poem is beautiful.

Love,
Mom

[Dad]

Write a poem? Not a poem?

I think you've discovered a latent talent you didn't know you had!

Remember, eloquence results, not when you have to say something, but when you have something to say. (I have no idea who I'm quoting with that last line).

Dad

[Joy]

Love that photo! It's beautiful!

[Kim]

claim what is yours, for it was given to you. this poem - yes it is - was given to you to give us and you did. what more is there? play with it or not as you like.

i am inspired by it. i love the thought of marring reality with imposed and bold beauty. we do this very often with our family memories. how often to we rewrite our history, or the history of the dead with epitaphs in primary colors when the truth - truth that we are uncomfortable with - is shaded in gray and blue beneath a tarnishing patina?

thank you.

[Melody]

I never responded to these before because I kept not knowing what to say. Thank you. I love that you enjoyed my post. Maybe I'll be brave and write another poem one day. Not holding my breath or anything - it's just now generally how words come to me - but it's not out of the question. Thanks again. Really.