Have you ever had one of those moments where you remembered something you did in high school English class and then, knowing it is still in the house, you have to hunt it out. I did that today. I’d been thinking of this particular thing for at least a week, but tried to push it to the back of my head. I didn’t really want it to go away, I just didn’t want to deal with it. And in all reality there is nothing major to deal with. A particular poem I had written in high school was replaying in my head – like an ear worm – and I had to find and deal with it.
After we had moved into this house, I had all these boxes of those sentimental things from my youth recovered from storage. Glancing quickly through them I realised I should put them inside, and that’s when they start playing on my mind.
I finally sorted those boxes today, 2 years later. And had
a few lots of cringe moments upon reading them. Amongst all sorts of newspapers, old photos, and the school magazines (one day I may show a picture of me, back when I had pigtails and glasses), I found what I was looking for. My memory serves me well, I knew the folder as soon as I saw it. And what it contained. Those papers proudly labelled “manuscripts” and story plots, a few really bad short stories and that pile of poems.
My teenage mind worked in very strange ways and if I recall, even back then I had no idea what I was going on about. If you ask me, I will deny everything, not that there is anything to deny…. Although, if I channelled it and had enough coffee, I could probably work some magic now.
But I am not a writer. No offence to my writer friends (you know who you are, I love you all) but it seems every man and his dog wants to be a writer these days. I am not a writer. Sure I loved English, and the creative writing sessions, but I have no inclination to write and publish my works.
For me, blogging is completely different style of writing to wanting a book published.
Writing is a form of release, a state of emotion, a conversation. Some of us are really good at it. Able to put meaning and emotions into a small space. Others, not so good. I try and get it right half the time. It’s one of the reasons I keep the blog going. Writing, sharing my thoughts, my life.
This first poem is vaguely amusing in its obscureness. As I read it to write, I am already re-writing it in my head. If you ask, I may put the revised version to page.
I see this relating to all the blogs out there, the plethora of voices, everyone calling out, wanting to be read, liked, enjoyed.
MISCELLANEOUS (- VOICES)
Converse, talk, blabber,
Yell, shout, curse,
Whine, moan and complain.
Boring, tedious annoying or funny.
Hilarious, frightening or warped.
Bubbly, chirpy, happy,
Songy, wiggly, wobbly.
Morosely, mad and zinging.
Sweet, mushy, sloppy
Thick, slimy, messy and slow.
Shrieking, drawling, crying,
Gravelly, sensuous and low.
High, horrid or hungry,
Big, beautiful or bountiful.
Panicked, preoccupied and plentiful.
Just remember. I am not a writer. I am not a writer. Please let me know your thoughts on this strange little prose, all comments, good and bad, are welcomed.
Jennifer, at 16. 😉