There are times when you realise that the written word is a much more powerful tool than it seems. I’ve always thought of it as a friend, who is able to speak for me when I can’t. It’s funny how fingers know what to write when the mouth couldn’t even begin to form the words needed to be said; maybe because sometimes the thing that has to be said is too much. Too heartbreaking, too lonely, too hurtful. Too much.
As a speaker, I am straightforward. There are no hidden meanings behind my words, what you hear is what I want to say. Most of the time, this is because I don’t speak much to begin with but I digress. This has both become a great tool and a double edged sword in my life.
But as a writer, my words and meanings meld into each other, changing, evolving as the piece progresses. I am enamoured by the them, taken in completely. As a writer, I can confront my fears. Instead of fuel for a raging fire, they become a spark of light. As I dance around the subject of my fears, I can ruminate its existence, look beyond it, look inside me, and by the time the last word is written, the performance ends and I take my bow and move along in life. It’s my special ritual in which to release grudges and resentment, but well, like everything in life; sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.
Sometime around May-June, with exams coming up and my anxiety flaring once in a while, I decided that I needed an outlet for these pent up words I’ve been keeping inside me. But while suffering does indeed make good inspiration for the poet, I had written so many dark pieces that I desperately wanted to write beautiful words on beautiful subjects. Something that would give me some kind of light in a quick to become dreary world. And like the art requests I’ve been doing for strangers on the internet, I went to twitter and announced that I wanted to do poetry requests.
A little bit of someone’s happiness in exchange for mine, I suppose.
It started off as a simple one paragraph prose for a few close friends to become a delightful whimsical poem that I would write for my requesters. For people I knew well and loved, it didn’t take me long at all to come up with something for them. But for some people whom I am not close to, or at a point or two I had somewhat disliked, it took awhile. It took some time to weave my words carefully, making sure to not leave thorns on the roses I prune but leaving enough trail for only me to know where they were before I cut them off. To me, it was as if I had told them that they hurt me, without them knowing. They don’t need to. This is my little ritual for letting go.
Poetry is like a dance in which, our interpretations don’t have to be the same. I may dance a sorrowful tune but if you saw it as blossoming, subtle joy, then are either of us wrong? I’d like to think both of us are right in our own ways. This is poetry, after all. Not a debate.
By now, I’ve written a lot of poetry for a lot of friends which I will gradually upload onto this site. It has brought me joy. I wrote them alone on my bed, in a little corner on the bus back from class, on the tube, wherever and whenever I could, and it was one of the best decisions I could have ever made for myself because it brought happiness to the people who requested them and by extension, brought happiness to me. 🙂