Friday, March 13, 2009

And I Didn't Even Know It

I've no tatting to show you, since I've been quite distracted by this sale and giveaway nonsense, but I can toss out a personal reveal post before the week is out. As has become my custom, we shall start with a recap. I first shared the origin of TotusMel, the name. Next I laid my first dead dream out for you followed by the origin of my crazy hair color and how I met my husband. Then you got the painful story of my first tattoos. Last week I showed you a little taste of one of my other talents, though I use the term loosely. Yesterday, I got my copy of Blueberry Girl by Neil Gaiman and reading that amazing poem helped me decide what fictional question to answer.

What's with the poetry you hinted at last week?


I discovered angst at the tender age of thirteen, the same age that I found Depeche Mode and Nine Inch Nails. This angst carried me all the way through college. It encouraged me to don a signature black wardrobe, to listen to dark music and to express myself through writing. I do have one favorite poem, but I am always ashamed to admit that I never followed any one author. I never even studied poets to learn their lives or writings. I never tried to emulate anyone with, well anything I do. I had no structure that I clung to, no consciously created deep meanings. I just wanted to get all that built up angst out.

I do remember thinking that I would be a published poet one day. I would contemplate sending my poem in to those poem publications advertised in the back of teen magazines. I of course assumed the were perfectly legitimate, just like those Who's Who books. Though I admit to falling for one of those ridiculous thing, I never did sent a poem.

I kept writing them up until the most horrible thing that could happen to an angst ridden poet happened to me. Yep, I met my future husband and became happy. I know, horrible right? I tried to keep writing, but all that came out was sappy drivel that I should have burned the second it hit the paper. Really, truly awful. Clearly my writing was fueled by pain and though I've not tried to write in a while, I imagine that parental stress is not the same.

I realize that I cannot write a post like this without proof, so I shall now subject you to a little of my prose.

Do you understand, do you even fathom
The destruction in my soul
Caused by want, fought by desire
It's blacker than this coal
I try to rhyme, to conquer time
To set the fire burning
But my phoenix dies with open eyes
A kiss of winter mourning
Do you understand, do you even fathom
The Spring inside my heart
My brightened eyes fraught with cries
Love is chaos burning

Whole, complete
Disconnected
Lies, discrete
Open Madness
Take and give
Grasping Passion
Life's a series
Of extractions
In terror he stood...
The night surrounded only him and the clouds covered him
To the sky he looked and in vain he cried, for he knew his god was dead
He screamed for help, but no help would come, for he knew his love was dead
To his knees he dropped upon moistened ground and reached for a tangible joy, for he knew that he was dead
But to this night he remains right there, for he knew then that death was dead

Well that's all you get for now. Don't forget to enter the giveaway if you haven't yet. It is over on the 17th along with the sale.



5 comments:

AJ said...

You're a braver woman than I am! I also went through the angsty teenage poet stage, but those poems will never make it to the internet.

Sewicked said...

I still sometime write poetry. The most recent, albeit incomplete one, was inspired by dawn sunlight on frost-tipped grass. yeah, I'm cheerful like that, sometimes. My best poem was omg angsty though. Hey, I'd just broken up with a boyfriend for the 1st time. It's permitted.

. c h o k l i t . said...

I did the EXACT same thing - I'm willing to bet there are gazillions of others who did. Mounds of angst-y dark poetry all through my teen years and then I gave up once I found happiness. Same with diaries.

Happiness is not good fodder for poetry, but I can live with that.

Have you heard of Mortified, or any of those other stage shows where people get up and read their actual humiliating poetry and diary entries from junior high??

I don't think I'd have the guts to share any of it, brava!

Jrahn said...

This is ironic, I had to write some poems for class, I did a few. I had to create a book that was bound and everything. I mod podged the hell out of it. Maybe I will show you some day.

Stormee said...

Your tatting is great so is your poetry.