Why I Write Poetry
By: S.C. November
Tags: Schools, Reading, Shakespeare, Poetry, Creative

Poetry has always been this lofty, obscure thing taught in English classes. It was prim and proper, with every line etched in parchment teeming with iambic pentametre and hidden meaning. Despite its elegance, it is often still perceived as contrived, forced, and pointless.

Shakespeare went over a lot of our heads in high school, centuries-old poetry didn’t connect with us the way it could have, and aged literature has left us with a bad taste in our mouths. We have over-analyzed, examined, quoted, underlined, and reflected on the musings of old men and women we felt no kinship with. We were asked to find examples of enjambment, sibilance, and onomatopoeia, all for the sake of a passing grade and a faux understanding of poetry and the English language.

When I was a young lad in grade school, I greatly despised poetry (‘hate’ is too strong a word). Needing to analyze the words of these proclaimed geniuses and reverse engineer their beauty seemed unnecessary, counterintuitive, and quite the hassle. It was poetry, didn’t it need to be felt? Regardless, we broke down their words until they were no longer beautiful to us. I memorized every instance of assonance, alliteration, and imagery, and aced my exams, but I couldn’t see the forest for the trees. I don’t blame modern education. I was young. I didn’t understand and I didn’t want to. I was bored out of my mind, uncomfortable in my pubescent body, and filled to the brim with teenage angst that could only be quelled by stories that were unironically edgy.

I grew up, had a few experiences, and continued to feel disillusioned during English class. Everything seemed like it would stay the same, but then I met a man named Rudyard Kipling through a poem he wrote. I finally felt the kinship I’d craved all along in literature. I felt like his words had reverberated throughout history just to meet me in my high school English class. I thanked them for traveling that far and that long just to meet little ol’ me.

“If you can dream — and not make dreams your master;

If you can think — and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;”

I felt the gentle yet firm hand of a father on my shoulder, and then I understood the power of words and poetry. I would continue to discover other kinds of poetry. I stumbled upon prose and spoken word. I was invited to Open Mic events. I fell deeper in love with Hip-Hop and the stories these modern-day bards were telling. I felt inspired. I began to put pen to paper and I created magic. I began to express things I’d been feeling my whole life. I began creating, publishing, and performing. I felt free. This is why I write.

Poetry can reflect the stories of great sacrifice and triumph, ground overexaggerated ideals of love and romance, and allow us to share our own stories.

Photo by Thought Catalog on Unsplash

I write because I am afraid.

I write because in my words I am 7-metres tall, and in real life, I feel like my shoulders are 7-centimeters above the ground.

I write because words are my way of reaching for the stars I’ve always felt so unworthy to even look at.

I write because words help me embody the bravery I wish I hadn’t given away every time I was silent.

I write because I am in love with vulnerability, I am smitten with honesty, I am captivated by truth and I am attracted to self-expression.

I write because it makes me feel special to make someone else feel special.

I write because for so long I’ve felt like nothing, and I don’t want anyone else to feel that way.

I want to build up and not break down.

I want to showcase love at its truest by expressing pain at its fullest.

I want to be honest with myself and others, and writing helps me do just that.

Every now and then I fall into a pit of despair and I struggle to climb out of my own depression, but writing helps me find hope.

Spinning tall tales of protagonists overcoming antagonists. Whether it be The Joker, General Zodd, Bane, Cancer, Heartbreak or Depression, I am an advocate for Love and a mascot for Hope. Whether my protagonists be in verse or be in paragraphs among paragraphs that fill pages among pages, one thing remains:

My writing is just an extended metaphor extrapolating all the reasons why this life is worth living.

I write because words help remind me that I am stronger than I think I am. Poetry helps remind me that vulnerability is not a weakness and that being honest with yourself is true strength.

I write to feed my anorexic soul.

The problem is and has always been the heart, and these words help fix it.

The thing with poetry is that it demands you be honest. Often times true honesty means facing loss, heartbreak, rejection, and all manners of pain head-on. It means we need to look inside of ourselves and write down the things we are most afraid of sharing; the thoughts and feelings that hurt us, the deep dark fears that scare us, and those memories that haunt us. It means we need to examine the wounds that are still raw and the parts of ourselves we aren’t ready to talk about.

What makes a man strong is not his ability to shove his emotions down his throat until they harden his heart. What makes a man strong is when he can reach down and rip out his pain, face it, and deal with it. This includes all the people he’s hurt as well as the people who’ve hurt him.

I write because it helps me redefine bravery and courage.

I write because I am redesigning myself while not hiding from the parts of me I am most ashamed of.

Vulnerability never gets easy, like I imagine one never gets used to posing nude for art.

Imagine walking down the street knowing everyone who turns to look at you only noticed you because they remembered seeing your naked body laid out across a canvas. It’s the same with poetry, except our canvas is a space between mouth and ear that we call silence.

Imagine everyone seeing you for who you are. Imagine everyone knowing.

My question is:

Why would that be a bad thing?

Being vulnerable helps free others to do the same.

Being free helps free others to do the same.

We’ve got it all wrong! True power comes only when we relinquish our lust for it.

True acceptance comes when you face it and realize that you don’t need it.

I write because I am afraid…

Afraid that my words just might change this world for the better.

Afraid that I might become who I’ve always wanted to be, and so all of my excuses for being average would have been for nothing.

I write because I am afraid that maybe — just maybe — changing the world is easier than I thought it was.

Photo by Patrick Tomasso on Unsplash

Poetry has given us the words of phenomenal women, the stories of new men, and the perspectives of young souls as they look up at the generation before them. With that said, I will continue to admire the calculated and academic approach to poetic analysis. It can be very exciting to understand the artists before us, the stories they wrote, and why they wrote them. It is important to think and meditate on these words, while still seeing the trees. Let us continue to think, but not make thoughts our aim. I am glad that this is happening. I am glad that poetry is making a comeback.

Here are some words from Julius Caesar, written by the bard himself:

For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, action nor utterance, nor the power of speech, to stir men’s blood. I only speak right on. I tell you that which you yourselves do know.

So, go ahead. Try it. It doesn’t need to be a sonnet, a haiku or some philosophical deconstruction of the state of 21st Century politics and race dynamics — but it can if you want it to. Be funny, be in awe of the places you’ve been, but above all be honest. Grab a notebook, a word document, and write something. Write something honest, something true. Express yourself the way you want to.