I don’t do poetry. I find it impossible to write, to create. There are too many mysterious sentences, too many words out of place for me to make any sense out of it. When I hear a poem, I think of my days in church.
A child like many others, sitting on a wooden pew, uncomfortable and hot, bothered. Looking at the saints and thinking why the artist didn’t want them to have any wrinkles… Checking the altar for the evidence of the blood and flesh of Christ. A quick survey of the vaults (in search of any incongruence on the frescos depicting fat angels) pretending to be lost in a febrile prayer. Repeat the same route with my eyes over and over again.
The priest would speak. No. The priest would make unintelligible sounds, lulling me to a shallow comatose state, followed by a roar that would make my heart shoot into my throat. In between, padre would read. I loved the stories.
And why was this so much like poetry to me? Because of the strange sequences of words, sentences that would wiggle, wiggle, wiggle and then stop at a dead end, without a single warning, just to twirl into another absurd spin of events. The sentences, I’ve learned, have meanings hidden inside other meanings. Just like poetry sounds to me. Interpretation, that’s what that is.
“A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness”, informed me Robert Frost in one of my desperate chase for answers.
It all makes sense when you’re in love. When you are heartbroken it makes sense too. When you are sad or happy… feeling lonely or completely motivated… aggravated. It doesn’t make much sense or, at least, you don’t draw much out of it if you are just plain comfortable. Poetry doesn’t churn your insides if you are comfortable.
Just to show you that I don’t do poetry, I’ve wrote a poem so you could judge for yourselves:
In these arms, life came and went
Passing from one tower to the next.
Tightening without reason, loosening without purpose
Arms made of fire, engulfing and releasing.
Languid and then strong.