I don’t consider myself a poetic person. Seeing Keats’ and Lord Byron’s names on the syllabus heave a great sigh out of me. I already know that I will suffer a great deal, trying to see beyond the words, and knowing that inevitably I will fail. It just feels all too high to brow to me. Just a couple of weeks past we read Robert Frost and I rejoiced that, for once, I understood what the poet was saying. I was reminded that the professor had noted that Frost was known for using “simple direct language about everyday things.” Ouch. But that does sum up my relationship with poetry. I don’t really have any talent reading it, so, therefore, I should stay far away from it.

My aversion to poetry started already in high school. I distinctly remember when I was studying for the matriculation exam that I skipped all the material about poetry. I had decided that I’d write the longer essay on the short story provided, no matter what it was. I feel like almost all those poems we studied were older with set stanzas and heavy rhyming. (Do note that it’s been a decade since my high school days. I really hope you all have had modern poetry added to the curriculum). It really solidified the idea in my head that poetry can only exist if it follows these strict guidelines. I feel like I’m not alone in this, as I’ve noticed that many people are still writing poems (at least in my own age group) with rhyming at the end of the lines. AABBCC.

“Follow the rules. Never stray. This is what poetry is, and it just is not for me,” screams the voice in my head.

Yet, as spring furthers along, I find myself standing in whichever street corner I happen to be in when inspiration hits, writing down little poems that come to me:

You can tell the difference in people
the same difference you notice on the streets in springtime
The other side is graced by sun ever so often
little flowers defying nature and pushing through the cracks
while the other is desolate and somber
ice and snow lingering far longer than invited
and you
you stand there between them
wondering which side to take
to get home
as the faint chime of the church bells rings
far in the distance
and dust stings your eyes

While I detest to make myself smaller than I am, I must admit that I have a greater gift for writing short stories than poetry. A dear friend of mine pushed me to write poetry (and later short stories) for the first time ever during the winter of my first year in university. He shared his own works with me, and I was in raptures. The words flowed so beautifully – even if the themes were often haunting and quite sad. I finally understood poetry. His works really spoke to me. I realized that I wasn’t the problem. The problem was that I was reading poems with themes that didn’t hold my interest – my mind as captive. Their words often didn’t make sense to me, as I couldn’t find myself in them. I am not a lover so forlorn that I see the moon as my equal. I do not wander around lonely as a cloud. But I do know what it’s like to be young in the 21st century. I do know the struggles of depression and anxiety – I just need them to be in words and allegories I understand. I don’t need them to be heavily rhymed and structured – in all honestly, I prefer them not to be such. Reading modern poetry, works of my friends and works shared here on BTSB, are a solace for me.

Spring has always been my favorite season. As the nature is released from the long hug of the winter, the bare carcass is revealed. All is gray and brown, but little by little, as the sun allows the earth to grow warm again, colors appear. And one day, without us even really realizing, there’s color everywhere, and people seem to wake up from their winter slumber. No wonder I feel so inspired by the change. Some of those little poems will stay as poems, some I might write into short paragraphs or even short stories. Whatever the case is, I relish the knowledge that I, someone who for the longest time thought that they didn’t understand poetry, was wrong. And those works I do not get… well, somebody has already understood them for me.