Now more than any other time do I understand why people write poetry. I do not write good poems. I wish not to clutter the poetic realm with my overwrought and undercooked lamentations. They may distract someone from finding the real gems, the poems that squeeze an unsolicited exultation from one’s gut.
On the other hand, I’ve been told my prose writing is decent, so I’ll stick with that. In a way, it’s riskier. Poets get licenses. Writing in complete sentences, it is easier to come across as odd or unstable and be judged negatively for it, whereas in a poem, it is slightly encouraged. After all, it’s “just” a poem. Vulnerability and stanzas seem to have been made for one another.
So there is the poetic impulse without the poem. What is the point? The point is a desire to reach you – the you in you – via words ill-equipped for the mission in a format constrained by clunky rules with the hopes of getting a reply. Or perhaps just a troll or two. And to do this in public. With my name attached. (Oh, he had such a bright future until he started getting all emo on the internet.) Back when I was really blogging, eight or nine years ago, I wasn’t on Facebook or Twitter. And once I got on Facebook and Twitter, I didn’t blog much. Now all three are happening and people who know me in real life will be reading this. Interesting.
In the meantime, I’ve gotten into the business of feeling feelings. Still a novice at life, I’ve somehow accrued 33 years worth of experiences. A lot of them hurt. I believe they must have been for some purpose. Not a grand one, but a grain of sand-sized purpose. I see others’ experiences in the same light. Gather many millions of us and we’ll have ourselves a beach. But for that to work, we’ve each got to put our grain of sand out there.
So this blog is me here holding my grain. It’s not unique or original. Not all that poetic. Just quaint and quotidian. But it’s what I’ve got. Let’s get started.