|Riposte| Wisdom of a Poet

You know the one, the bullet that carves through the flesh so fast that you’re already nodding and thanking them for their feedback, before you realise the giant gaping puncture they’ve left in your chest.

Well, I recently had the pleasure.

I should start by saying that I write poetry in a completely amateurish way. Mostly, I enter the daily challenges on Commaful, in which you have 24 hours to submit your finest piece on whatever the given word of the day is. For reference, my most popular work to date is a rhyming stanza in which I beg my Nostril not to embarrass me by sneezing on the overcrowded London Underground in the middle of rush hour.

It’s classy stuff.

And I’m fine with this. I don’t think I’m necessarily a bad writer, as I would challenge anyone to write a sincere poem about a nostril and call it good. At worst, my writing often lacks a sincerity, an approach I thought was abundantly clear when a real-life academic and Poet took ‘a look’ at my poems.

In his defence, this was by no means a voluntary exercise for either of us. Spearheaded by an overly exuberant mother and son – our respective partners at the time – he read the poetry and offered his professional opinion, before being rather uncomfortably cajoled into grading my work as if I was one of his students.

Glass of wine or no, it stung a little, if I’m honest.

His comments weren’t even wholly unexpected. This man is an academic in rural middle-class England, whose career has been forged on teaching and critiquing the sentiments that his students have lovingly poured their heart and souls into. These people will no doubt go on to contribute to the literacy fabric of our society, and therefore treat their work accordingly.

But the world’s we occupy couldn’t be more different. I am a chaotic twenty-something year old in London living the corporate ‘dream’. I work 60 hours a week and I started writing because I couldn’t afford a therapist. I am carving myself a career in male dominated industry where like Sisyphus, your value is measured by your ability to tolerate climbing an ever-steeper hill each quarter.

This is what shapes my poetry. When I pick up the pen after a long day of ego stroking some of the capitals most competitive physicians, I am looking for a lightness to wash away all things serious.

So, with this in mind, (and a large glass of wine to hand) I’ve immortalized my wounded pride with a poem. I hope you enjoy it.

Wisdom of a Poet

#1 Thou shalt not Rhyme

But why not dear Poet?

Does it make my message that unclear?

Does it trivialise it, or feel insincere?

For I like the way the words wash

Softly sanguine

Swiftly nudging you

line by line.

As that’s how I live my life too

A nod in the mirror

A backwards glance

No more.

I must profess I am no portrait painter

A single stroke of self-reflection

A callous acknowledgment of my imperfection

Is all I require to clear my conscience

To counter my compass

And steady myself, on.

Is that not enough?

#2 Thou shalt write in images alone

How so dear Poet?

For I speak in words.

They are solid, defined

Images, I have learnt, cloud my mind.

They shift and blur

And I am a tinkerer

That tweaks and plucks

until the sullen snapshot

Is picture perfect

Or there enough.

And then, how can those lines

once moved

Remain uncrossed?

I’ve lived as a lady long enough.

I know how the elephant is obscured

Appearances are everything, are they not?

So let me be literal

And speak my mind

And though I will not shake Literature’s great foundation,

Or even leave the merest scratch.

Hear this whisper, and know

That this young girl found her voice

And speaks her mind.

And there is a value in that.

But maybe, maybe, I’m just not meant to be a poet.

#3 Thou shalt be inspired by poetry of calibre

I read your work, my dear Poet,

Critically acclaimed as it is,

I knew then it must be good

Is that enough? To simply know?

I liked the way the words danced on my tongue

(A cliché perhaps)

But like the lustful midnight touch

It was a fleeting fancy

And I found each grand lament

A heavy ornament on my grandfather’s shelf.

I fear your talent will but gather dust on my mantle

For as I hold each trinket to the light

those sacred nothings slip through my fingers

And careless in my nature, I watch them crack

Is there such a thing as a careless poet?

#4 A declaration to dismiss

I do not mean to dismiss your advice

And trust me I have not

For its bitter taste charred the words on my tongue

And has choked me to silence these last months.

Maybe it was my pride

Or that I had simply nothing to say

That you, dear Poet, might want to hear.

So, am I learning?

I think not.

My poetry is careless, true

But I cannot write of streams and autumns’ light

Or the city’s stillness late at night

When I, a girl, spends each day

Jostling shoulder to shoulder

In this old boy’s world,

Screaming from my lungs to be heard.

I need some lightness in my verse

And though they will be torn from these scribbled pages soon,

Whilst your careful anthologies secure it spot on a student’s shelf

I will write my silly rhymes and wistful wonderings

And know that no matter how bad you think it is

It is not holy unworthwhile,

For dear Poet, it made me smile.