The Self-Regulation of Poetry and Longing
I understood something tonight for the first time. It came about after I wrote a post on depression and the artistic temperament for one of my other blogs. As I was explaining how my art is often a form of self-soothing, I cracked open a tiny window into my own current situation. I’m not depressed, but I am highly activated and in an artistic spurt. Tonight as yet another love poem (or poem of #desire, as I’ve come to call them) surfaced I caught a glimpse of myself, doing my thing. And I noticed the effect. The poem of longing seemed to relieve some of my sufferings. It gave me a lift even as I was expressing my dismay.
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In touching the sadness in words I can begin to unlock and feel them in life.
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By telling my story, even in poetry, I am giving voice and awareness to my inner voice, my inner pain. I don’t admit my sadness or loneliness much these days. I’m too busy, too creative, too “happy.” But tonight, something in the back story of the love poem signaled from my subconscious creative brain to my rational and self-assessing brain that there was a problem.
Again, it’s a poem. But as I look back on the two books of poems that have come out of this period of my life, I began to understand, tonight, that these were as much a narrative as my prose. When read in sequence, you can see the arc and trajectory of my heart out of darkness and into hopefulness. I even achieved several moments of “love.” Even when the relationship couldn’t hold the feeling, in the poems I captured a tiny sliver of the potential.
Women of potential. My muse.
And tonight, as I was writing this poem, about something as simple as noticing a woman’s dark shiny hair, I was also able to hear a bit of the ache that I long to medicate with a relationship. And barring that, a love poem.
In the act of desiring, in the writing of a romantic epistle, I am releasing some of the tension I feel. In touching the sadness in words I can begin to unlock and feel them in life. Again, I’m not sad, but I’m lonely. As creative and inspired as I am, my seeking is consistent and unanswered. I have learned patience. I have learned the language of love. I have taught myself to compose songs. And yet… I’m alone.
Another moment occurred this weekend that opens up a bit more of my thinking about relationships, and “what’s next” for me. I had taken a long Saturday afternoon to drive my daughter and two of her friends to the local outlet mall for her birthday. That afternoon, when I got home, alone, I was exhausted. After a quick nap, I arose and felt inspiration hit as I was trying to put down a song idea with my guitar and computer. An hour later I was one song richer, and again, slightly exhausted.
And at that very moment what I wanted was someone to share my song with.
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It’s sort of romantic, and productive, all this being alone. But it’s not a condition I aspire to, it’s merely where I find myself at this moment.
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I contemplated going out. There was a local band playing, and I knew the woman who books the club was newly single… But I was tired. Fulfilled somewhat with my creation. And still, aching for connection. So some of what I am longing for is simply being seen. Having someone to share my new book of poetry with. Or even a new poem. Sure, I’d like someone to come along who can trigger some of the “loving” sides of my poetry and songwriting, but I’ll settle for a confidant. Well, perhaps a cuddling confidant.
I know that I don’t want to become addicted to this state of longing. It’s sort of romantic, and productive, all this being alone. But it’s not a condition I aspire to, it’s merely where I find myself at this moment. And clearly, for a few moments more.
All is well. A new poem is written. A song released inspires yet another. My creative heart flows and flies.
And. Longs. For. Connection.
Sincerely,
The Off Parent
@theoffparent
*this post was written in December, 2014
related posts
- What Is A Love Poem?
- forgive me if i go poetic
- The Divorce Recovery Path: My Journey Back to Joy (part 1)
- Why Blog About This? What’s The Point?
image: the author, kristy duff wallace, creative commons usage
she is aspiration (a poem)
she is stronger than i know
more beautiful than i’ve had a chance to discover
reaching for her lover
with grace and a smile
to light 1,001 nights
beyond where i’ve ever been
and she knows
i am beside her
every step of the way
even as the course corrections may be numerous
this flight plan
is one we’ve both been drawing on our own
praying for a copilot
for the heavy weather
as well as ice cream sundaes
rainbow fkn unicorns
we are
she is
1-1-22
open window (a poem)
there was a moment
as she turned away
breeze was billowing
with an afternoon coolness
the bedsheets felt rough
our attempt missed
i returned to the window
looking down
at the frigid mediterranean sea
crashing on the rocks below
all night
the window called us
to swim
or jump
or leave
just get up
get out of this horror
that should’ve been a honeymoon
but was something else
a dying gasp
and non-refundable tickets
to some paradise
we had spoken of many times
while i was still hopeful
12-14-21
for the trees (a poem)
there was the forest
and the trees
her
and me
the road ahead looked cold
strait
narrow
tightly controlled
and her lack of smile
said all i needed to know
she was the one leaving
not arriving
she needed me to know
why
i smiled
she didn’t expect that
it was her idea
this breakup
she was telling me why
i was pleasantly surprised
by her reasoning
the objections were quite sound
as she droned on
about what wasn’t working
what she needed
how i was the issue
not us
me
that might have been the problem right there
this amazingly beautiful woman
giving me the letdown
to go down in history
was not responsible
for her own meltdowns
somehow i was not playing
by the rules
as she understood them
just a few days before
in the middle of a crisis
she took off all of her clothes
and cried
i sat nearby on the bed
consoled as best i could
but the issue was not apparent
her sadness
from some distant pain
overwhelmed her thin white body
pale in the romantic lighting
the song
do you realize
seemed to be in some reloop
or perhaps it was time that was looping
i am not sure what to do here i said
but i can be here with you
beside you
i can hold you
she seemed more confused
additional tears poured
this appears to be something a bit bigger
than our erotic liaison gone amiss
i can leave if you’d rather be alone
a bit later
the conversation moved towards
a curious exploration
between us
she was still undressed
and looking as delightful as ever
it’s like your naked fairy dust isn’t working
i said
she stopped cold
what?
it’s as if your hot body would solve any issues
without any work
we’d just blow over the upset
and blow on each other
to quell the glaring heat
of something unpleasant
fill the void
with the passion
see if that gives us/you
some relief
that’s not me
that’s not what happened
i waited to find her again
but she had retreated
again
into an angry silence
she put her pajamas on
i kissed her forehead
and left
maybe that’s the answer
to my ease
as i see it
as she will never see it
as beautiful as she is
smart
happy
and
broken
11-29-21
