Poetry to Me: Hey Old Friend, Can I Crash on Your Couch?

Once upon a time, I held pen to paper and symphonies played through my mind.

Long, long ago, words and I danced, laughed, mingled and frolicked aimlessly, instead of on deadline, with purpose.

Those days, things were different. I was different. It seems that, in at least some fashion, the old sayings are true: happy writers are poor writers. Writers without muse are reporters. (Ok fine, I just made those sayings up).

I put down my pen years ago. It all stopped. Almost cold turkey. Suddenly, Poetry moved to another universe and became that pen pal I always aspired to write to with great enthusiasm and exciting news of the day...but sooner than later, days became weeks, weeks became months, months became years, and... well, we all know that the more time that passes, the harder it is to write to that old friend. Yet it also mattered less, since poetry was a passion that suddenly became a memory that faded without feeling. How could I miss it when I hardly realized it was no longer there? Without reason, without warning, POOF! All gone.

Then just as suddenly, BAM! Hello, old friend! Poetry SLAMS down its suitcases on my doorstep, pressing the doorbell again and again, with the hyper enthusiasm of a child who finally, FINALLY is able to reach the doorbell without being lifted. I open the door barefoot, ready to point to my "No Soliciting" sign, to be silenced into a smile at the sight of Poetry's tattered and worn baggage marked with "Heavy" stickers on the sides, overflowing with years of experiences, knowledge gained and lost, emotions, and stories to tell... Oh the stories to tell! And could we please, pretty please, sit down and hash it all out and catch up over a cup of coffee or maybe a few thousand cups? Hmm?

Oh, Poetry. I welcome you, sweet childhood pal, back into my life. I relish seeing your old face (you haven't aged a bit, by the way, lucky fool!), touching the magic in the folds of your meanings, playing impishly in the fancied sunlight of your alliteration once again.

As a good friend, I haven't questioned why Poetry has returned after such a long, long absence. Perhaps it has committed crimes, broken hearts, healed wounds for countless others who appreciated it's beauty and relevance more so than I would have these past years. I welcome my oldest, dearest friend into this house with the most loving, crushing of hugs, promise to put on a cup of coffee, and shut the door quickly, before it realizes that perhaps I am not the most worthy of its friends to visit and tries to escape once again.

I am hoping this time, Poetry decides to stay. I care not where it's been, why it left, or what it's been doing all this time. I only care that it is here, for me to nurture and to completely lose myself to once again.


Allena said...

Marlynn, your poetry is inspiring! I am very thankful to have these few minutes at the end of a day at the office, a moment of clarity, to be able to sit in silence and fully appreciate the care of your verbal construction--your day in poetry.

To express one's thoughts in rhythm and cadence, with fluidity and visual form, to paint a picture and revel in both its creation and existence is something we as communicators have little opportunity to do--time restrictions, audience restrictions, purpose restrictions--but is nonetheless satisfying both in reading poetic words and I can imagine in creating those phrases.

Thank you for sharing your gift with language and your careful observations of the world around you with us.

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