I must be crazy...

I must just be weird.

I was talking with someone a while back about her poetry (aka, I should have written this post a while ago). I had read a poem of her's, then replied with 3-4 ideas / pointers / questions on or about the poem. To my surprise she didn't like this. She explained to me that she viewed her poems as art and personal history, that the first writing, whether theologically sound or not, contained part of herself that she wanted to look back at and remember.

She didn't want to change the writing, because there was intrinsic value in the process of writing, in the emotion, the act, the whole person that brought about the writing itself.

That confused me.

I have a much different view of my "writings." First of all is that they are never really complete. All my "finished" poems are sitting in a "Sorting" folder… I'm not even sure how to sort them correctly!

To me, I am always ready to add another brushstroke, always hoping that someone tells me that the canvas is not covered, that I used the wrong color combinations, that the contrast isn't enough, or that their eyes just hurt when they look at the confusion (Yes, still talking about poetry… sorry for the extended metaphor…)

It's not just art to me, it's worship, it's debate, it's … me, and I know I need community and fellowship to keep the bounds on who I could become. I have the potential to be so wrong, to over-think, under-think, and go down the wrong path.

And I hate being wrong. (As much from pride as love of truth, I must admit…) but I know it's best to just take the pain, figure it out, and surrender to right. Not that I'm perfect at taking criticism… but with God's help I'll keep my pride in check and take it to heart ;-)

And now, just for good measure, here's a poem this reminded me of! Especially the last… stanza?


"Performing Poetry"

I need to work on how I perform
my poetry.
The writing is all good,
knowing, contemplating
the way my art should go.
I see, feel the words,
wish that they were acts.

I wish my poems were more
of the day to day me,
instead of just pen to page:
their revelations would reside
here in me.

My writings will not endure,
they have no eternal hope,
but they display back to me
what I know is sure:
Eternity comes tomorrow,
as the night of this life shuts my eyes,
when again they open,
only work that matters will survive.

Am I what I've put on paper?
Redeemed, pure only by God's act?
Or am I, here, a hypocrite,
placing hope in an earthly pact?

Never proud let me be,
of my broken poetry.
Let me be child of God above,
boasting ever of His wondrous love.