My First Attempt at Publishing Poetry
My Love~Hate Relationship With Poetry
I'm doing it. I'm finally biting the bullet. For years I have watched friends on Hubpages publish their poetry, and I looked on in timid admiration. I thought that it's great for them, but there is no way I can do it.
When it comes to writing articles, I'm thoughtful, thorough, and can look at a subject with a unique eye.
When it comes to fiction, I know I have the skills to evoke strong emotions, to hold a reader captive, to thrust a protagonist to the climax.
When it comes to screenplays, there are no limits to potential success.
However, when it comes to poetry, I feel lost and afraid that there are cosmic rules I am breaking—that an invisible poetry Queen is looking in on my work and calling it rubbish. When I even think about writing a stanza, I feel like I'm standing in front of an English 100 class with my pants down and everyone is laughing.
Conquering My Fear
I am not usually one to back down from a challenge. I face my fear of heights, I look danger in the eye, I take every fear and stab it through the heart with a silver nail, and I laugh in the face of danger.
- I will be terrible at it.
- I will butcher an ancient art form.
- I will break a rule I didn't know existed.
- No one will understand it.
- People will think I'm a fraud.
- People will judge my writing skills by my poetry performance.
- It will sound amateurish.
- people will think I am immature and keep my heart on my sleeve.
Growing as a Writer
I am constantly coaching new writers on how to write better and pull in an audience. I teach them to face their fears and go for broke, to write with everything they've got, to not be afraid of failure, and to find their writer's voice.
At the same time I am agonizing over writing poetry. Yet, there is something inside me that is drawing me to it like a moth to a kerosene light.
What if I'm good at it? What if it improves my fiction writing and my ability to communicate the five senses? What if I find that I actually enjoy it?
When I think of poetry, I think of snobbery. I want to EX that out of my mind, once and for all—discovering that poetry can be liberating and freeing.
When troubles come like raging sea
When despair opens her wide abyss
Darling I will hold your hand
There's no safety you will miss.
When aching heart and broken bone
Doth drive your soul to tears
Darling, I will wipe your eyes
And swallow all your fears.
When feet grow sore from battle march
When youthful eyes go dim
Darling I will carry you
through every battle win.
When peace is far and evil near
When bone and marrow cease
Darling I will raise you up
that your joy, it may increase.
When that faithful day shall come
When breath to me return
Darling I will give you life,
It is faith that you have learn.
When through pearly gates you walk
When saints of old you pass
Darling I will be your light
And rest your soul alas.
Upon a hill the train does pass
Lies blades green with life
And everyday the people pass
They think it's cute and nice.
A man atop the hill
He holds a bucket and a brush
And with unpolished wood
He paints a shade of mush.
Fathers, mothers, brothers, sons,
They climb the hill above
To find the names of causalities
And honor their beloved.
Flag to crosses do attach
And every day the number rise
For it is a war that won't be won
Until no rocket flies.