April is National Poetry Month. The only significance to this post is that I remembered that last night and found myself falling down one of my favorite YouTube rabbit holes–spoken word poetry. Otherwise, that’s about it.
Okay, not entirely. After finally shutting my computer down, I picked up my notebook and began scribbling some verse, which is something I don’t do very often. I consciously stopped writing poems in college when I realized that I was really aping my professor’s style so I’d get an A and even then, the poetry wasn’t particularly great. But I will admit that every once in a while, I jam one out in the notebook because it’s a way for me to write something personal that isn’t about pop culture or isn’t about teaching. It’s also nothing that will see the light of day unless you bug me enough (although funny enough, I threw one into an “anonymous poetry” assignment last December, so my 10 advanced class read one of my poems aloud without knowing it). And I will admit that watching poetry being read or recited makes me want to get behind a mic and do it, although then I realize that despite my current job I have a low threshold for embarrassment.
Anyway, the other reason that I had been finding it hard to write poetry (and honestly some more personal types of essays while we’re at it) is that when I look at the poetry I have written over the now many years, I see that many of my topics were well-suited to someone who is in their formative years and not on the brink of middle age. Granted, I probably have the maturity of a 15-year-old at times (and some of the people in my life have seen me demonstrate this in spades), but writing poetry about having crushes on girls when you’re 39 is kind of weird. However, I don’t know how ready I am to go down the road of saying that the woods are lovely, dark, and deep and all that.
At a glance, poetry really seems to fit those who are young or those who are old because they either have the fire and passion that comes with inexperience or they have the flicker of a long-used candle. And I never actually thought that there would be a point where I felt that I had lost my voice. I mean, despite all of the business and stress in my life, I still find time to write and some of those blog entries and podcast episodes get personal, but even then it’s personal reflection within the context of nostalgia. So I’m not actually getting personal so much as sharing personal memories.
I’ve tried to remedy some of this by finding inspiration in reading a variety of poetry. I enjoy the passion and the idealism found in a Brave New Voices or Button Poetry video, but I also enjoy the simplicity and wit found in a poem by Billy Collins or Ted Kooser. Still, I don’t know if anyone one will find it inspiring or even interesting if I wrote about a life of suburban domestication. Do these lines inspire you?:
I make sure to wash my hands
after pouring bleach
into the washing machine.
This is my favorite T-shirt
and I don’t want to ruin it.
Yeah, not exactly.
All this, however, begs the question with which I am going to close this post. Does poetry … does writing have to come from a source that appears “interesting”? Can the mudane, the everyday be inspiring? Have thousands of “writer types” in undergrad and MFA progams who flock to readings with the pretense of “being deep” ruined the act of writing for those who don’t fit their mold?
Maybe I’ll write about that.