I wrote a poem about going back to sleep after I wake up in the morning. It garnered me my first ‘clap’ on a published site.
1,200+ blog posts about travels, reviews, relationships and watching my father take his last breath, and the one about my sleep indulgence gets a nod.
No complaints. I’ll take it.
Poems are hard to write. There are forms and syllables to consider, of which both have little to do with the subject matter. There are lines that stand independent yet flow together. There are few words. There are only right words. There’s having the arrogance to truly believe that everyone must care.
I will say this, though a freshman effort, my poem is an honest poem. It took me all day to craft, and I was true to myself. Not only was it funny to admit, but it was liberating to write.
And it had me curious what other reveals might look like in that stylised format. Removing fiction’s filters, how would my stomach-turning anxiety, my passions, moral conflicts and tenacity combine under a single narrative?
10 lines about taking a nap is one thing … exploring the inner workings of this clock? I don’t think I’m qualified.
Let’s just put it this way, the image of last night’s burnt potatoes au gratin comes to mind: A wasted use of good ingredients and my time.
There’s only one Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. And I am no Pablo Neruda.
So I’m sticking to passport stamping and unsolicited opinions about movies, and leaving the crème brûlée to professionals.