Losing My Religion

buddha

I like poems and stories. I used to be a poet. I say “used to” because it’s been about 5 years since I have written a poem. I’ve studied a lot at University and on my own about writing and poems and stories. I’ve written a lot of poems. A . Lot. And, a lot of stories.  Notebooks full–plastic tubs filled with full notebooks that only a handful of instructors and classmates, and of course, Steve have read. You know, only other poets read poetry. I’ve been lured away from poetry by having to work and being middle class.  I am hardly suffering, but I am definitely lazier now.  And, you need time to spare to be able to stare out the window to conjure poems.

Lately, I’ve been feeling the tug back to the poem even though I don’t live in tragedy anymore. I live in a mostly functional house, not a run-down studio without a shower and broken windows. I don’t have a mad man for a neighbor keeping me up all night playing Janis Joplin at decible 10 like I did in the good old days of the Rossmor. There hasn’t been a block  either. Not really. My only excuse is that I’ve been distracted. Led astray by blogging, work, children, a dog, and domestic 21st century life.  And, I had to get rid of the notion that I need to be tortured to write poems. I believe in poems, and I know how to write. I believe this like many folks believe in deities. It’s faith. That’s a hard word for me to use.  It’s a cliche, but creating is like a religious experience, of sorts. Transcendent, with a sense of something mystical, even supernatural taking place. (Oh, man, she really has lost her shit, now, she’s talking about religion AND she is writing poems–WTF?!)

I have many, many poet and songwriter friends and an artist for a husband who also likes poems and I blame them for re-inserting the poem in our conversations, insiting that I care about poems, and dragging me back down the garden path toward the tree with the apples, the snakes, and Charles Bukowski.

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