Abaculus

So this week I started writing poetry. Before I go on, the first and last time I wrote poetry, I was in primary school. The title, "What is Grey?" was given by a teacher who was possibly the bitch from hell. She really should not have been teaching, because the only effect she had was to terrify the entire school. Furthermore, at school I used to have to wear a radio hearing aid, and she used to curse having to wear a microphone. Look, I didn't exactly choose that pleasure either. In fact, she used to sellotape the ariel around its body, the only result was a crackling mess.

My relationship with English continued to be much one of turbulence. All English teachers talked too fast, fail number one. The texts required too much verbal interaction, that sent me straight through the net. It was too closely related to speech, too. The list goes on, as to why I could never get out of my English classes fast enough preferring to run straight to the Maths block. Inner rebellion occurred, and I didn't want to know.

So someone suggested I wrote poetry. I'm all like, have you lost your mind? I don't know the first thing about poetry! I can't write! Automatic rejection, based on past experiences. However, since we were having a parallel discussion, a light bulb went off how it possibly could be a gateway to expressing visual language (where I had narrowly interpreted this to just be sign). As someone who was brought up between two existences, perhaps a double identity, this could be an English-visual representation. Perhaps not a revelation to the masses out there, but for me something clicked. Oh, how I had been so dismissive. Dismissive as I might be, I didn't think I could do anything with it and with it perhaps some envy which translated into frustration.

This week has been a difficult one, so I started to write poetry, not a conscious geared act. To my surprise I wrote four poems in the space of 12 hours. It perhaps paints me as more crazy, wondering how my head is wired up. It causes me to re-read and shout: get a grip! Yet strangely offers structure, and insights that I never knew possible. I can analyse, talk myself to death, and get no-where. Poetry is an interesting process, as its in total conflict with my logical self, and a side of me that traditionally likes to dominate. In all irony, pushing this logical - or perhaps analytical - self pushes me into deeper confusion and leaving a knotted mess. Where I'm quite aware I can send those around me nuts. With poetry (well at least for me because I don't know the rules), feelings dominate which cannot be mutated by logic or analysis. Just write, and leave be.

I'm not about to share what I've written, as the content is way too personal. However, one thing I do know, if poetry is inspired by hurt its a hell of a profession.