A poem just to say that I'm still here
Feb. 9th, 2013 03:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
megwritesI've had little if anything to write (creatively) since the beginning of January because I've been taking a course to get a paralegal certification that has basically sucked up whatever excess energy I might have had. And given that low energy is something I've been suffering from for a long time, that means writing has gone on the back, back burner. So has non-class related reading.
I wonder if this contributes to me resenting this class already and hating it. It's entirely too left brained for me and I know that now. I wish I'd realized it then.
But enough of that. I'm just posting to say that I am alive and I even have a poem that got workshopped by the writing group I'm in.
I like to think of this writing group as the writer's equivalent of gentle yoga. Except far less cultural appropriation that comes with yoga in the U.S. But that's a whole other topic. Anyway, it's a very gentle group that meets once a month in the community room of the local library. So far I like it because right now what I need is something that's positive and encourages me to just write rather than harsher critiques and higher level polishing. Which is just what I need at the moment. I may know on an object level that my writing is a little more sophisticated than some others in the group, but they're at least writing at all. I'm not, which means they've got a leg and a half up on me.
Anyway, suffice to say the levels vary and so do the genres, but this poem seems to have impressed them and I got some nice compliments on them.
I expanded the poem at their request and am presenting it now to you.
"No One Comforts a Troll"
I think of myself as
both ugly and delicate
Like a field of porcelain weeds
If an army of boots
came marching quickstep across me
what would remain?
and who would care?
What if the troll sobs itself to sleep
every single night, emotionally fragile
and broken and
what if the troll under the bridge is
dying of it
No one comforts a troll
So how does it go on
and does it matter?
I wonder if this contributes to me resenting this class already and hating it. It's entirely too left brained for me and I know that now. I wish I'd realized it then.
But enough of that. I'm just posting to say that I am alive and I even have a poem that got workshopped by the writing group I'm in.
I like to think of this writing group as the writer's equivalent of gentle yoga. Except far less cultural appropriation that comes with yoga in the U.S. But that's a whole other topic. Anyway, it's a very gentle group that meets once a month in the community room of the local library. So far I like it because right now what I need is something that's positive and encourages me to just write rather than harsher critiques and higher level polishing. Which is just what I need at the moment. I may know on an object level that my writing is a little more sophisticated than some others in the group, but they're at least writing at all. I'm not, which means they've got a leg and a half up on me.
Anyway, suffice to say the levels vary and so do the genres, but this poem seems to have impressed them and I got some nice compliments on them.
I expanded the poem at their request and am presenting it now to you.
"No One Comforts a Troll"
I think of myself as
both ugly and delicate
Like a field of porcelain weeds
If an army of boots
came marching quickstep across me
what would remain?
and who would care?
What if the troll sobs itself to sleep
every single night, emotionally fragile
and broken and
what if the troll under the bridge is
dying of it
No one comforts a troll
So how does it go on
and does it matter?
