The Magical Thing About Poetry

I don’t know what it is about poetry, but there’s something magical about it. I used to be well acquainted with that magic, when I was young and didn’t care so much about what people thought. It probably helped that I was spending a lot of time hanging out with Anne Shirley and Jo March, and those two ladies had me soaking up all the romance of writing and nature and symbolism.

I would get out my notebook paper and #2 pencil, stare dreamily out the window, imagine myself as the main character in the origin movie about someone famous and amazing, and all my romantic-but-wounded-teenage-girl-angst would make its dramatic way onto the page. I have no idea what exactly I wrote, because I never saved any of it. But I can imagine it would have been the stuff of every single 90’s TV show meant for teenagers. All the “My So-Called Life” vibes you could possibly imagine, and then some.

And then I hit the second half of high school, and then college, and then marriage, and parenthood, and somewhere in there I left poetry behind. I missed it, longed for it even, but I convinced myself that I couldn’t write poetry, that being a poet was an unrealistic idea for me, I certainly wasn’t good enough, and the few times I took a crack at it, it was like I was just trying to prove to myself that it wasn’t meant for me, so that I could finally put this ridiculous dream behind me.

But I didn’t put it behind me. It kept whispering to me, and no matter how many times I tried to push it away, it just wouldn’t leave. And at the same time, I was feeling so very distant from myself. I couldn’t find that girl I used to be. I knew I was getting closer to her, and sometimes I could almost feel her, but then she would sneak out of my grasp, slippery little minx that she is, and run off into the mist again. I didn’t know how to get her to stand still long enough that I could actually touch her, let alone embody her.

This continued for years, until eventually I got frustrated enough that I decided to step, hesitantly and fearfully, into the practice of writing poetry again. I decided to write bad poetry, and just never show it to anyone. Ever. I slowly began the practice of writing little bits here and there. And to my surprise, I didn’t hate what I wrote. It wasn’t amazing, but it wasn’t awful, either.

Over time, with practice and the help of some poetry friends, I started to develop my own voice, and I learned how to use poetry to speak to the things that I had been hiding from for so long. I learned the power of using prompts. I learned how to use the details of my own life and combine them with symbolism. I broke my habit of “trying to say something”, and began just expressing what was in my heart, even if it felt silly or weird.

Especially if it felt silly or weird.

And somehow, without even really trying, I suddenly found myself in conversation with myself. The real me. That elusive girl who I was chasing found me, once I stopped running after her and instead just sat still and invited her to join me, without expectation or pressure. Turns out, she is happy to sit with me, for as long as I will let her. Apparently she has some things she has been wanting to tell me.

And ultimately, I think that is the gift that poetry gives, to me and to anyone who decides to step into that practice. The opportunity to stay in touch with myself, and a moment to give a voice to what’s going on in the deepest part of me, for good or bad. It’s not always deep and insightful, it’s certainly not always pleasant, and there are many times when I’d rather not look at it. But the price of not doing it is to go back to being a stranger to myself, and that is a price that I am not willing to keep paying anymore.

If you would like to follow along on my poetry journey, you can follow me on Instagram, or subscribe to my Substack. I've got some exciting things coming over there.

Love,

Amy