Taylor here. I’m blogging today very late in the week, and this is the weekly blog that should have gone up on the 3rd; however, I was going through a lot of mental crap in the early part of this week, and really felt I couldn’t come up with a good blog that I wanted to share. So in the interest of “the right message late than the wrong message on time,” here is the blog, late as heck but it’s here!
I’ve been really enjoying writing lately. I posted about this recently and shared my experience of the joy of the written word; I should really do a video about it, and I’ll make a note of that now, so keep an eye out for a discussion of my writing history!
For now, though, I’ll tell you that I’m writing poetry for the first time in 10 years. I’d been a poet from age 13 or so (who isn’t, really, in those teenage years?), and had written prolifically, but had not written any for most of my 20s. Most of my 20s were spent dealing with my mental health crises and getting myself into recovery, and I had all but given up on my writing, thinking that the brain damage and trauma had somehow removed that part of my brain, the part that’s always been in love with the written word.
But that part has been resurrected, and I’m writing. I’ll share here my first recent poem; it came to me while I was in the library, actually, picking up (what else?) a book on poetry, and the poem came into my mind so suddenly and so clearly that I had to hurry to pull my laptop out of my bag and type it up at lightning speed. It’s called Pomade:
This is not the man I faced
as a child,
yet even still
he smells of pomade.
He does not have the slicked-back slick black hair
of my attacker;
he does not have
full of teeth that were
all the better to bite me with.
He does not have those cruel hands;
that cruel mouth
which demanded an apology
for his own sins; he does not have
that cruel mouth.
He does not have the raging beast within him
beating against ribcage-bars;
trying to get out
to roar, to rage, to rape
virgin lambs like I was.
No, this one is not him;
he smells of pomade.
It’s not a literal story, but it’s close enough to give me shivers. It just came to me and I had to write it down. (If you’ve seen The Kindergarten Teacher, a fantastic Netflix film about poetry, among other things, I would have been saying “I have a poem.”)
I cannot express my gratitude at getting my poetry back. I’ve always journaled, even during my difficult years, and I’m still doing that and am very glad that I kept that up, because I think that’s what allows me to write my poetry – I never stopped writing, it just changed to a form that is (for me) easier to maintain even during bad times.
I plan to put together a zine of my poetry at some point next year. I don’t know when; it could be February, could be July, could be November – depends on when I accumulate enough poems to put together a good-size (60-page, hopefully) zine. So stay tuned for that. 🙂
Before I go, I wanted to say that I am so grateful for everyone who has been shopping at my Etsy shop since my return! It’s fantastic to have people ordering things, it makes it all worth it for me (and the money helps more than you probably realize). I appreciate you all so, so much.
Also, yes, I am still painting my Tarot deck. Slowly. It’ll still be out in June!
Until next time, guys, I hope that you are having a truly excellent day, and I’ll talk to you again very very soon.