This blog seems to be my therapy lately. A place where I am as honest as I can be. Sometimes thing others look at as someones gift or talent may not feel like that to the person or artist. This is a scary and terrifying world to have a talent in. Your are loved and hated instantly. You are worshiped and cursed almost in the same breath. And, to make an error in judgement, speech, or action you are attacked from everywhere. You have to have tough skin, a heart with armor around it, and be sure of who you are inside.

I think I have the tough skin. I do not have a heart with armor around it. Which might surprise some that think they know me. I rarely cry in front of people – even family.  If you have read or read my poetry, I think you should see I must cry at times.

So – how do I see my poetry? Gift, curse, or blessing? I see my poetry as all of them.

My poetry is a gift. It allows me to express my broken heart. My heart is broken. It broke 23 years ago after a Mass in a Catholic church. It almost healed or should I say numbed enough or the scar became thick enough until a year ago. My heart broke again at another Mass in a Catholic church. At least my husband was with me this time and could confirm some things that happened. I was already putting By the Pond together for about 6 months prior. That Mass changed the book a bit. I became a bit bolder and the first 5 poems and 3-4 more in the first section are new ones I wrote after that Mass for the book.

My poetry is a both curse and blessing. I cannot not write. If I do not write, it swims and swims in my head until I let it out. The thoughts and ideas will not go away until I say it with pencil on my yellow legal pad. Since By the Pond, I have written over 100 new poems. There are still poems from 1993 period. When writing is intense, it is a relief to get it out. There can be a sense of satisfaction when it flows and I am finally good with what the poem says. They take work and a lot of rewriting. A lot emotional investment goes into them. My poems are pieces of me. Tears fall over many of them as I write and rewrite.

I do have an escape from the stress of  my poetry. When I am at the elementary where I am a substitute teacher, my focus changes. My attention goes to the children I am with that day. The hugs and happy faces in the halls when they see me makes my mind relax and my heart finds its smile for awhile. Some hurts, some heartbreaks, do not heal. They are ever present. Working with children comforts that hurt that will not heal for me. Poetry only expresses it and is not an escape from it. Poetry is a release for it. We all need times and places where the hurts can be pushed aside for awhile to pretend them for a time forgotten.

The poem in the picture above is on page 6 in By the Pond: Of My Poetry (I would say)