As part of the session, we wrote our own short poems. I’m not entirely sure if mine is actually any good; but honestly, that wasn’t the point. The purpose was to spark the creative side of my brain, to loosen it up, stretch it out, and coax it back into play. And on that front, it definitely worked. Putting words on the page felt freeing, energising, and just a little bit brave.

I will share that poem below, be warned, it is by far not a polished piece of literature but it is a small step towards growing that creative side of the brain.

Next week, our focus shifts to realism, a genre I know little about (but looking forward to learning). I’ll share a snippet from that session once I have something worth bringing here.

For now, here’s the poem I wrote in class, imperfect, simple, and exactly the kind of creative nudge I needed.

The Gift of Not Knowing

I don’t understand poetry.
Is it a collection of romantic ideas shared in words which I have to put in a thesaurus in an attempt to understand the invisible person behind this complex language?
Then, perhaps poetry is if for intellectuals, for storytellers and for lovers of coded language.
But that cannot be so, for some poetry is uncoded; no thesaurus needed!

Could poetry be a hiding place for vulnerability?
Surely it can only be a hiding place, if you also hide your words.
For to share is to be vulnerable.
To share is brave, it is open, it is honesty, it is raw.
Therefore, I suspect poetry is not a hiding place.
Indeed, I am beginning to feel it may be the opposite.

Perhaps poetry is a dumping ground for one’s feelings and emotions.
Like thinking out loud without getting into trouble?
To vent on paper, those wicked people causing havoc, hurting without care.
To share emotions, the beautiful soul loved by another, she will never know.
Then, is poetry a space for sharing parts of you without limits, without accountability?
If this were true, then, is poetry is for cowards?
Humans afraid to bear aloud one’s soul for fear of rejection, judgement, ridicule.
Then poetry is a safe space to make somewhat visible your invisible self.
Hiding in plain sight.

Could poetry be a diary, like Ann Frank’s collection of experiences?
If so, then the complex language and need of a thesaurus make sense.
For humans are complex; their lives so often misunderstood,
words, sentences, conversations, understood by no one, sometimes, not even by the poet.
The being struggling in this human body, trying to make sense of the feelings pouring from it.
Thoughts from inside spilling out; filling the once empty pages,
perhaps then, poetry is a superhero, saving the human from mental exhaustion,
creating a space for one to explode on paper saving their internal and physical body and mind.

What if understanding poetry is unattainable, because its meaning differs among people.
Or maybe, to understand poetry is to accept we know so little about the invisible lives of not only others but also of ourselves.

What I do know is that I won’t ask ChatGPT for that is a stealer of stories.
It takes words created with feeling and spews it out in pretty language to disguise a meaningless string of words generated without thought, feeling or emotion.
It seeks what is asked but fails to find words born from the human heart.
Maybe then, poetry is part of the human heart.

I don’t understand poetry, but I like it, and I would like to learn to love it

The End

Here’s to showing up, trying new things, and letting creativity find its way back in – one playful exercise at a time.