writing

blog: poetry is a discomfort zone

Poetry is a weird art medium. Especially for me these days. I’m plagued with questions…. should I aim for the controversial, political, slam-worthy, stuff of viral media? Can I just write simple ditties about love, and nature, and God, or does it all have to be clever and have deeper meaning? Do I have to keep churning pieces out, or is it okay to write one or two truly inspired poems a year? Should I take my old stuff and mine it for gems, or build a big bonfire in my backyard and burn it all? (I’m in favour of burning it, personally!)

And in my experience it’s not an art form that garners a lot of validation, to be honest. The people who like poetry – the poets, the music makers and the dreamers of the dreams – we get it. But the rest of the world doesn’t seem to know what to do with it. Write a song or a novel, and people applaud. Write a poem, and you get crickets.

I think it comes down to a matter of how we handle vulnerability and self-exposure. Take classic art forms for example – drawing, painting, sculpting, etc. The artist creates a piece of art derived from a real life object or concept using the materials of their choice. Some art can be political and provide a social commentary, and other art is just nice to look at. The thing about this type of art, is that its meaning or message is often subjective and dependent upon its beholder. The artist’s own intent can be overt or hidden in layers of messaging if they choose. And for people who just like art for arts’ sake, or the average punter who knows nothing about art, they can at least appreciate it at that surface level.

But poetry… poetry doesn’t hide. Ever. It can’t, because by its very nature poets are literally describing what is in their brain. They aren’t pulling any punches. They are telling you how they see the world, in no uncertain terms. Yes, there are metaphors and poems can ramp the romanticism and melodrama up to 11, but ultimately the author is telling you exactly how they feel about their subject… what they hate, what they love, what they fear, what they desire.

And so the non-initiated audience gets uncomfortable. They feel like they are peeking into something they shouldn’t, seeing behind the veil, reading someone’s diary. They may not understand how to engage with poetry; they may be unqualified to comment on the form and rhyming schemes and all the technical things that make that poem great, which leaves them only the content to parse… and since a lot of poetry is raw emotion on a plate, that makes them uncomfortable.

I’ve noticed this, when I post pictures of something I’ve made or a costume I’ve sewn, e.g. something visual, the engagement is substantial. Lots of likes and heart reacts, some comments and questions. But if I drop a new poem, I don’t get the same result. Don’t get me wrong – this isn’t me begging for likes. I’m too old to care about popularity contests anymore. I would still write, even if it was only for myself. But it’s interesting to see more visual forms of art receiving immediate validation, while a poem that would take just a minute or two to read gets awkwardly ignored.

Sometimes I just want to say – “Hey, it’s okay. I get it. I shared something super personal here in this poem. But I shared it because I wanted to.” Because that’s what it comes down to. You’re not peeking into my diary – I’m opening up the book for you. Nothing gets put out in the world without my consent. I have agency over my level of exposure and vulnerability. And if I write about hard things, or share my feelings, it’s because I CHOOSE to do that.

It’s okay if you’re not a ‘fan’ of poetry. It’s okay if you don’t like what I write, or the way I wrote it. It’s okay if you think I’m an absolute unpolished amateur hack. I’m not writing for your validation. But I am hoping for your appreciation.

Ultimately I’m just a kid running to their parents with a hastily scribbled crayon drawing, hoping it’ll get put on the fridge. I guess in a way this website is my fridge… I stick my poems here, and maybe one day someone will read through it all and actually get me, because ultimately all I really want is to feel seen.

blog: breakthrough and new beginnings

I don’t often experience “breakthroughs”. I’m more of a slow and steady, parse the information, ruminate on all the options kinda gal. But I guess ‘breakthrough’ is the closest word I can use to describe where my head is at right now.

Two weeks ago, I marched in the Sydney Mardi Gras Parade for the first time. It was actually my first time even attending the parade since 2000. I’ve always been queer and I’ve never felt the need to label my queerness. The crowds, the hullabaloo, the spectacle, the Pride-with-a-capital-P aspects of queerness weren’t really for me. But I’ve been intentionally exploring my place in the ‘alphabet soup’ of LGBTQ+IA for a few years now, and since I had no other commitments I decided this was the year I would do all things Mardi Gras.

It was important to me to join a float that spoke to my intersectionality, so I chose Aspect, an autism support group (whose theme this year was literally ‘Intersectionality’ by the way). Because my health has been somewhat in decline the last 5-6 years, and having never marched before, I was worried about the physical demands of the parade. Everyone I spoke to said something different, from the “Oh it’s really quick, like a light jog, I don’t think you’ll be able to do it, why don’t you hire a mobility scooter?” crowd, to the “It’s a quick walk but there’s lots of stops and starts and chances to catch your breath, you’ll be fine.”

And you know what? I was. In fact, I felt more than fine, I felt AMAZING. Seeing the crowds lined up to cheer the marchers on was so empowering, and I felt especially proud when I walked past the disability and accessible viewing space and saw two awesome individuals I’d met and shared a train into the city with. The walk was easy, I was dancing the whole time. Afterwards I went off to a metal gig and though I was dressed in 80’s gear (the sub-theme of Aspect’s float), nobody cared and they even complimented me on my outfit. Then I spent the rest of the night hanging out with some friends feeling completely relaxed, completely myself, and importantly, feeling good about who my whole self is. I even connected with someone unexpected, in a really open and honest way, no games or bullshit, which is always such a blessing.

It made me realise there’s a lot I’ve been missing out on in life, because I’ve thought it too hard or that I didn’t deserve it. It made me angry at myself and my entire perspective has shifted since that weekend, for the better. I immediately put myself on a sensible diet plan, and have already lost 2 kg. I’ve organised some fitness training, which I’m nervous about but will try my best to stick to. I haven’t even needed my cane at all during this whole time. I’ve finally got my house in order. There are some negative things in my life right now that I’m dealing with. But overall I’m feeling like the good outweighs the bad.

Best of all, I feel the creative juices flowing for the first time in years, and decided to revamp this blog site (that I hadn’t touched in ten years, d’oh). I’ve spent the last couple of weeks trawling through old livejournal accounts, google drives, multiple emails and FB pages and profiles to find the majority of the poetry I’ve written since 1998 (prior to that it’s in a notebook somewhere and I was an angsty child and no one needs to read that stuff, haha). I’m so close to re-launching this site, and questioning myself hard. What is my motivation here? How do I want people to engage with my art? What if this is all just angsty depressive love poetry word vomit and I’m not as good as I think I am?

It’s easy to run back. It’s easy to say, “You know what? At least I tried… ” and disappear again into my cave. It’s easy to tell myself that nobody wants to read my style of writing anymore, that my health problems are too much of an obstacle to experiencing human connection, that people will ultimately just betray and hurt and reject anyway so why bother. It would be easy to go back to my victim mindset and cry about my loneliness and feel sorry for myself. But… I don’t want to. I WANT to put myself out there again. I WANT to see if there’s still a place in the world for my art. I WANT to see if there’s someone out there who can love me.

They say ‘The heart wants what the heart wants‘ – and I can’t tell my heart to be quiet anymore.

poem: language as an old lover

I miss writing like I’d miss an old lover
Dumped, by the side of the road
I miss language like a country abandoned
But still longed for,
Though the bridges have burned.
Our paths cross, tentative, and awkward:
“How’ve you been… Oh? That’s nice…”
Just a fraction of what is there to be said
The easiest way to exist –
Between the shouts,
And the silence.

I don’t know what you want me to say –
That I gave up,
Because I wasn’t enough for you?
That the beauty of all you could be
Shone a cold light on all of my failings?
You think it’s easier to walk away?
When all that you are is all I ever wanted?
You think I don’t hate myself every day
For not being strong enough
To see it through, to submit to the fire
And come out a diamond?

Remember the party
Where everyone showed up unannounced,
So beautiful in feathers and furs
And there’s me in old jeans,
My hair unbrushed,
Just happy to see you happy.

And how your friends laughed
When I poured them wine
With names I couldn’t pronounce.
The brie tasted like ash in my mouth
As I stood quaking in the middle of the crowd
To recite The Jabberwock.

And you sitting there, toothed a smile
Tinged with sadness because you knew
That was all I could ever offer
And you wanted me to be more
So that we could be more together…
You knew,
And I knew that you knew.

So I packed my words in a velvet-lined trunk,
Put the key in my top drawer with all my other secret things.
I packed language away in a silver box;
I set you free to be all that you could be
In someone else’s arms
On someone else’s lips.
I smile and pretend that it’s all okay,
That I don’t miss you every day
That we were just too different and it’s better
That we keep to our proper stations.

But oh how I miss the exhilaration of a properly turned phrase
The vernacular coitus of prose and rhythm
I come to your shows and watch you owning the stage
And I can feel every line as it lifts off the page and for a second
I remember with burning jealousy
What it feels like to be Icarus,
Soaring above the crowd.

Sometimes I think we could try again,
Sometimes I buy blank notebooks and fresh pens
Thinking it will lure you back into my world.
But the notebooks sit blank,
The dream-thoughts fade in the morning
The stories get lost in the commute and the bustle.

When I am old, I know
You’ll come to my bedside
You’ll take my hand – a roadmap
Of wrinkles upon wrinkles
Yet you will still be young, shining,
Perfect and new.
And I –
I will be unable to hate you,
I will clasp you to my bosom and beg
For just one more story
Of “Once Upon A Time”.

poem: musings under the bodhi tree

I want to write poems that make you go wow…
Pop open your mouths and feel like the world as you know it
has been turned inside out,

And oh how I wish I were ballsy enough –
To spit rhymes on street corners and strut my lyrical stuff
Without censoring myself or holding a grudge
against the sins of the past.

I want to change the picture, flip the scene,
make you think about things
in ways you never dreamt possible –

I want to create a dialogue, an invitation to come and be
Co-conspirators
In a closed loop circuit of ingenuity.

And just as I have thrown myself at the feet
Of prophets like Rumi and Hafiz,
Had my soul spoonfed by Dickinson,
And plunged headlong like a lemming
into the sweet abyss of Hemingway –

I long to possess and impart such wisdom
That people would line up for miles
just to lay their naked, quivering,
thirsty souls in my outstretched hands
Saying – Feed me!
Fill me! Teach me!
Show me -more-…

And then I’ll say – No.

I cannot, because the vision is yours.
You are the key to your own destiny.
The knowledge has always been in you.
You ARE enough for your soul.

And then we’ll walk as equals in paradise,
sharing enlightenment, sharing life;
And I’ll lead you to the cafe where
Buddha and Ghandi sit contemplating their coffees
Where Jesus waits (and occasionally flips) tables
And Freud and Jung are locked in an eternal game of strip-scrabble.

A place where I am you and you are me
And my words are yours and your words resonant in me
And when we finally understand that WE
are the music makers and the dreamers of the dreams –

Then…

Then we can change the world.

Sydney Writers Festival 2014

blog: the starting post

So I decided to start a blog, hehe.  I don’t really have much to say but I guess I better put something here to start things off!  I haven’t been doing much the last few days, it’s been pretty rainy so I’ve been tucked away inside playing computer games.

I got an email back from the Black Stump people, and they’re inviting me back this year, yay!  I do so love to Stump!  The theme for 2009 is “Imagine” so I am going to have a lot of fun with that.

I am basically going to do what I call a “girl on a chair” show which is basically just me chilling out with the audience and doing some poems.  One year I brought a 3-legged stool that I borrowed from my sister, which was visually kinda cool, so I might look around for a particular chair to decorate up for the show.   Also I will probably write some new material… I always say that but it’s so hard to make myself sit down and write for any length of time, haha.

Last year I did a bit of a “scripted” show because the theme was “Life”, and I wrote about a girl who’s just died waiting around in Limbo after the funeral and reflecting on her life.  I felt it would be a good contrast, but it didn’t really go over too well… probably because it was a bit morbid and depressing!  Plus, my stage makeup looked pretty freakin’ creepy, which I didn’t realize until after I got the photos back, haha.  So this year I think it will be all rainbows and fairy floss… hey, now there’s a prop idea!!  :D

poem: block

And you slip-shod drove your Metaphor
Into my Simile…
Breaking the code of the language we both used
You tripped the English words across your tongue
Sticky smooth and hung like honey
From a bee’s knees
I tried hard to find
The synaptic gaps inside my mind
And failed…
The sum of your parts
Being greater than your whole.