just thoughts.

[kaydeefalls]

When I was younger, I used to write poetry all the time. I loved it. I was eight, nine, ten years old, and I was expressing myself, and it felt wonderful. My poems weren't all that great -- I mean, I was just a kid, I knew nothing about writing or style or anything, I just wrote what I felt. And I loved it.

There was a very old man who lived down the hall in our apartment building. He was in his nineties, and he was proud and demanding and old-fashioned. My father befriended him and every few weeks, he would come over for dinner. I don't remember when or why I first showed him my preteen poetry, but I did. And, for whatever reason, this old man loved it. Maybe it was nostalgia, maybe it was just a cute little girl who wrote cute little poems while his own family was somewhat estranged from him, the great-granddaughter he didn't have, I don't know. From then on, every time he came to dinner, I had a poem waiting for him, and he doted on it. I liked the attention, I guess.

As I got older, I wrote less and less. I was busy with school and work and life, and while I liked poetry, I just didn't feel the need to write it much anymore. But every time the old man came to dinner, he expected a poem. So I would force myself to sit down and organize whatever was running through my head into poetry. It worked. Sometimes. Other times, I couldn't think of anything to write and I hated it and hated the old man for expecting it. I would churn out something I knew was trash and give it to him and stand there, hands behind my back, like the ten-year-old waiting politely for praise from her least favorite teacher.

My poetry stopped being cute and little girl-y. It was forced, fake. It became bitter. Maybe once or twice a year, I would actually want to write a poem for myself, and it would be meaningful and private and me, but then weeks or months later I would be forced to dredge it up and give it to this old man because I had nothing else to give him, and I hated him as he read it because this was a different sort of poetry, the sort written for yourself and not meant to be read by anyone else, and he would read it aloud to my parents and I wanted to curl up and die inside because it sounded all wrong and was private and mine and he was taking it and twisting it and making it his. I was on display, a dancing monkey on a street corner, and I hated it.

One day when I was sixteen or seventeen, my father told me to write a poem because the old man was coming, and I said no. My father yelled at me for ten minutes and spent the rest of the week trying to guilt me into writing something. "He's an old man, he doesn't have much time left, he wants, he needs, he likes your poems."

So I wrote a poem. It was bitter and nasty and blisteringly honest, and it was probably a piece of shit.

I haven't written a single line of poetry since. Every time the old man comes over (less and less often now), my father tells me to write a poem, and I say no. Because poetry is supposed to be a part of you, something you want to do, something you love. I used to love poetry. Now I can't even read it. I spent too many years churning the stuff out mechanically, cute little packages of false sentiment. I hate the poetry I wrote when I was younger, because I can see how trite and not-particularly-good it was. I hate my father and the old man for sitting at the dinner table and trying to guilt me into writing when I had nothing to say, while I sat and stared at my plate and couldn't swallow my food. I can't write poetry anymore, because every time I try to sit down and let it out, I clam up and think about how I'll feel when something so inherently private is pulled out and examined and judged, and then whatever I wanted to write dies.

I used to love to read poetry. Now even Dickenson and Tennyson and Neruda are a chore to plow through.

It's a lousy experience for a child, to watch her favorite pasttime become a hateful thing. How can something that used to make me feel so wonderful now stir up so much ugliness inside of me?

This is why I cringe whenever my father says I should become a writer. Because I never want writing to become just a job, just something I have to do because someone else tells me to do it. I love writing too much to make a profession out of it. I never want to kill anything I love again.

The old man is in our apartment right now and my father just asked me to write a final poem for him. I said no. Maybe he won't notice I'm here.

Comments

[jubilancy.livejournal.com]

*hugs you*

that's awful.

[kaydeefalls.livejournal.com]

I don't think about it much. I was just...reminded today. But thanks. *hugs back*

[lestrange.livejournal.com]

*HUGS* Anything that can make you find Dickinson a chore to plow through is the devil's spawn.

[kaydeefalls.livejournal.com]

"I'm nobody, who are you?"

It's still pretty... *hugs back*

[airgiodslv.livejournal.com]

Oh, babe...that's awful. It truly is a tragedy, because you're right; once you hit a certain age and self-awareness, your poetry should be for you alone.

I've almost completely stopped writing poetry now, but that was because I found other ways to express myself, not because of the terrible things that have happened to you. I'm outraged that your parents tried to force you to reveal your soul like that, particularly to a complete stranger, and I do hope that one day you will heal and be able to write for yourself again.

I don't know if this will help you at all, but if you really do feel that you need to write, and are afraid that someone will force you to share it...as part of Solstice rites, many Wiccans write reflections - about their past year, themselves, their souls - during an all-night Vigil, and then burn it to ashes when the sun rises. It's a way of purifying yourself without leaving a record behind to cheapen the experience. A purging, of sorts. I don't know if something similar would give you the freedom you've been denied, but I sincerely hope so. Or that you find another way to unlock that part of yourself and feel whole again.

I wish you healing and comfort and the freedom of expression, dearheart. Please let me know if there is any way that I can help you. Good luck.

[kaydeefalls.livejournal.com]

I don't think I'm all that traumatized, or anything -- it's been about a year since I handed over the last crappy poem, and like you, I found other ways of expressing myself. And I know that at any earlier point in time, I could have simply refused to show anyone what I'd written, but because I've got some stupid fear of disappointing my parents, I just kept pulling the stuff out. It took me too long to realize that saying no was an option.

It just all came back to me today, when the old man came over and my father asked me to write something (because I'm leaving, y'know, and the old man probably won't be around much longer, so it would be a really nice gesture...), and I realized that I never want to see another piece of poetry again, mine or anyone else's. Ugh. I'll get over it eventually, I'm sure. I just need to get out of here and grow up a little.

Thank you for everything you said. I don't quite know how to respond, but thank you. I really appreciate the kindness.