Blogs by Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
Poetic Pain
7/3/2003 1:23:54 AM
I tend to feel inadequate when I try to review a piece. I don't really know if what I see and say has any meaning, in the grand scheme of Poetry writing. Does it matter, when there are more educated reviews, to see my pathetic attempts to show how it "feels", to Me? "Feelings", or interpretation, do not make a good Poet, as I've been reading and assimilating in my pursuit of writing Poetry. Instincts mean diddly squat from a person who does not know an enjambment from a failed metaphor... In truth, how does it help a person who gets a gung-ho from such as myself, when so many learned personages refute (in the essence of what they have learned and are teaching from their experiences) the blatherings of the Poetic wannabes? It seems I know the answer to this question, my point is the human ego, facts verses feelings, I feel ridiculous in my ineptness. I know why. I am not a Poet. I am a poet. I'm sure this sounds pathetic, but, many of us, who want our words to reach and touch others, are unsure if it matters, if it will make any kind of difference to anyone else, in the end. Since I started writing, a year or so ago, well, it has consumed my life. Taking me from the mundane tasks of being a mother/caretaker into the realms of glorious worth, but, in reality, its taken me from my family's life. I need a conclusive opinion, should I continue to strive for a goal I could obtain, or concentrate my passionate creativity into different mediums, of which I have many ideas? Do I give up my hopes and dreams to face reality? Am I worth my own efforts? Should I make a poem about this? Would it ache enough to get across the agony of self? Would I have to adhere to strict poetic measures of rhyme and rhythym to show the risk I take? Should I show "life", in my poems? Should I commit the singular sin of suicide of wanting and being? Should I kill the dream? Am I too selfish to see the broader picture? I wonder who we are, why we are, how we are and where we are, I wonder about Time, and Life, and Nuance. I am Nothing, and Everything. And I laugh/cry at my confusion, because, in the end, I am only one of billions. I am not starving, not a statistic of poverty, not bereft of love, not a victim of circumstance or child abuse. What makes a person? How do some deal with so much physical pain in their lives, and overcome its horrors, while others fold under ethereally painless mental bedevilment? How can we be? Apparently, this is the reason we have/are/become Poets, in the broader sense of the word. Cognizance brings awareness. Awareness brings sensitivity. Sensitivity brings perception. Perception is Life. Life...hurts. Pain makes us respond. Actions continue the cycle...of Being.
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