I have decided to create a new photo album in my Facebook for sharing random poetry. I have hundreds stashed in my hard drive, in my journals, on scraps of paper, and a lot more crawling around my head.
And then some of them are on lovely paper in the possession of those who inspired them, if they have not thrown it away already (possibly accompanied by a shiver of dread.)
In any case, they have always been hidden. My little children. Offsprings of my heart.
Then last night there was this series of events. First, the "dark" side of writing a novel has reared its head. All the memories, angst, emotions I gathered material from are still out in the open, raw and pulsating under daylight. I have not had time to put them away and also I was still editing so I still need them for filling in plot holes. But without the mad dash towards a finish line or meeting word count requirements, there are now spaces for breathing and those raw things in the open started to moan and groan and suddenly I was a vulnerable mess.
Second, I stumbled upon a beautiful photo of a couple I know (on Facebook of course, where everyone gets to craft a dream life) and it was taken specifically for showing off how perfect and in love they are. Regrets for my own past failed loves keened and tried to find dark corners to hide in.
Third, I seem to have lost a poem I had written years ago. It was the only one I ever wrote for one specific person and I could not find it. I started looking for it after I saw the photo because I wanted to read it to soothe myself, to comfort the dis-ease in my own heart. And when I could not find it I was overcome by a feeling of loss so great that I felt I would die in my sleep of a broken heart.
In my desire to find the missing poem I was led into many forgotten files of poetry, both finished and unfinished. They made me weep, as if I died all over again, as if I got un-chosen all over again. After a mighty torrent of tears I quieted down. My eyes were red and swollen I could barely see through them.
This morning I started to organize my poetry, killing off the bad ones, cleaning up the good ones. Then I decided I would share them. Maybe that is what I am meant to do now. Instead of hiding.
Here is a remake version of the missing poem.
On a more positive note, I feel better today. A few ideas were released by the deluge of tears and I am now playing with them, seeing where they could lead me.