I started writing a book of poetry yesterday! I decided on a theme I want to center and explore, came up with a working title, set a 6-month deadline for myself, knocked out the rough drafts of the intro/preface and the first 5 poems, and learned something about myself in the process. I am really enjoying this. It reminds me of doodling in the margins but with words.
I was not expecting to do all of that in one go but I started writing and something just clicked and things started flowing at a good clip between naps. I had no idea that was in me and wanted out - but here I am at least 4 pages into doing this.
My partner has been far more patient with this process than I deserve. I think he is secretly pleased with how much he shows up in my best and most thirsty lines. He did however accidentally crush my get-rich as slowly as possible dreams last night when he informed me that poetry books never sell and I am the only person he knows who buys them.
I can not be the only one propping up a whole industry. I'm thinking back on how many people I've given their first book of poetry to - not just their first grown-up poetry book but like their first-ever - oh... Oh fuck... Well
I feel like our entire education system has let down everyone who doesn't know how fucking cool poetry is. It's like music that can paint pictures with feelings in your head without having to be loud and it's in a book which is also cool. These are all win win win qualities for a creative experience. Why isn't this more popular?!?!
There are parts of this sudden new addition to my to-do list that my partner has found very entertaining like me struggling to decide while beet red if I had the balls to read him a poem about him- I did not. He found it almost as entertaining as my response that I was writing poem number 4 about eating p***y with an absolutely straight face when asked what I was doing- which leads into the thing I learned about myself along the way: I want a girlfriend. Super bad. (talking to women scares the shit out of me so... They are pretty and I just can't. I am a typical tongue-tied useless sapphic)
I never in a million years would have ever thought that I would try writing like this at any point. Not unless it was as a joke or to make a prop. I wouldn't be doing this if I hadn't gotten sick. I know I probably wouldn't of even been able to find enough time to write like this if I wasn't sick. It is something that I can do in a way that completely accommodates my ability/energy levels.
I have no idea what I am doing but I am doing it anyway. I am not all that concerned about if I can sell or publish this book more than I am about if I can write it. Worst case scenario I teach myself bookbinding and make it myself- which sounds pretty cool anyways. I'd like to die with a collection of one-of-a-kind hand-bound books.
So far I am still just numbering the poems and will go through and name them as it comes to me. I am trying to get as many things down as I can that I can polish or fill out so what I have now and what it might become may be totally different. I might also not change much of anything and let it stay sort of raw and unfinished.
I wonder how many other Long Haulers are out there finally doing art because we've been forced to stop, slow down, and reorganize our lives in radically different ways that prioritize our wellbeing. I hope that there are just tons and they are finally exploring their dormant passions. I could go for another renaissance about now.
You want to read what I have so far for #4, do you?
4.
You seem sweet like lemon mischief
A playful flavor dancing sharply across my tongue and then as ephemeral as spun sugar you twist, gleam, and glow through the breathless choreography
Delicate like a raspberry topped mignardise