Posted on by seasonsshadow

PSA: Keep your High School Edgelord Poetry

I have been out of high school for 17 years now. It was not a nice time for me, and for the most part, I’ve blocked out the memories. However, I recently went to a poetry reading, and it triggered something in the back of my mind. Something I had written in high school. Something I had written in high school and liked. Something I had written in high school, liked, and thought I probably still had. Its last line echoed around in my head.

“But I didn’t understand, and that was too bad.”

Days passed, and I was still haunted by lines that were probably originally inspired by some nonsense high school drama. Or emotions that ran unregulated around my hormonal brain. Maybe a new literary obsession. Who knows? The intent behind my words has long since been lost to me.

“I don’t care that you’re sorry, and I know you messed up. But I didn’t understand, and that was too bad.”

Was I just over glamorizing something from my past in an attempt to save my brain from remembering how embarrassing it was? Or was it truly something worth digging out again?

I had to know.

Logically, if I had kept it for 17 years, written out on a loose piece of paper, over countless moves and life changes, I had to have seen something in it, right?

Where was that folder of-

Ah, yes. The folder of past writings.

“When I’m angry, you don’t understand. When I was destructive, you didn’t understand, and that was too bad.”

I dug out the poem and held my breath.

I read it.

I read it again.

And you know what? If I had reread this ten years ago, I would have cringed so hard I left the planet and set the paper on fire in my wake.

But time does funny things to perspective.

It wasn’t bad.

The full thing is as follows:

“When I’m sad, you don’t understand.

When I’m lonely, you don’t understand. That’s too bad.

When I’m normal, you don’t understand.

When I hide behind my smile, you still don’t understand, and that’s too bad.

When I’m angry, you don’t understand.

When I was destructive, you didn’t understand, and that was too bad.

I don’t care that you’re sorry, and I know you messed up, but I didn’t understand, and that’s too bad.”

Somewhere, under that stresso depresso cry for attention is a really interesting poem. All it needed is a little massaging.

So I massaged it.

“When I’m sad, you don’t understand.

When I was loud, you didn’t understand, and that was too bad.

When I’m happy, you don’t understand.

When I smiled to hide the sharp knife of my tongue, you didn’t understand, and that was too bad.

When I’m afraid, you don’t understand.

When I begged for peace with my white flags called teeth, you didn’t understand, and that was too bad.

I don’t care that you’re sorry, and you say it’s not fair. But I didn’t understand, and that was too bad.”

Which, if I do say so myself, is decent. Poetry is not my first language, but I dabble. Now, it still screams “Not like other girls” or “Manic Pixie Dream Girl”, but it’s BETTER. And better is better. It’s right there in the name.

If I were to take the heart of the poem and make it more about moving from one stage of life to another, I think it might even become something adjacent to ‘good’.

When ocean swells crash against freckled shores, you don’t understand.

When your deep sky eyes swallowed my desperation for summers past, you didn’t understand, and that was too bad.

When forests of laughter spring up under my leaps of faith, you don’t understand.

When the funeral procession for all my past selves crushed me under a white-hot weight, you didn’t understand, and that was too bad.

When winds of sweetly scented future draw me ever farther away, you don’t understand.

When the same tendrils that strangled my soul rocked you ever so gently to sleep, you didn’t understand, and that was too bad.

The golden past may have bought your loyalty like a devoted lover, but I didn’t understand, and that was too bad.

What do you think?

Posted on by seasonsshadow

It’s Levi-OH-sa, Not Levioh-SA: Spellbound by the Spoken Word

Recently, I was invited to a poetry reading. An amateur poetry reading. Visions of a room full of beret-wearing college kids filled my mind, all snapping after one word is spoken into a microphone on a sparse, poorly-lit stage. It could be any word, but it’s spoken artistically. If you don’t see the way ‘balustrade’ perfectly reflects the social situation of racial tensions in some faraway country, then you’re not artsy enough to be here.

Of course, that’s nothing close to what it was like.

A historical building converted into a coffee shop. Mismatched tables and chairs are crammed into any space available. A great, old, carved bar serves as the order counter. The smell of coffee and pot pies hangs in the air, and soft acoustic music allows for hushed conversation and the sound of scratching pencils against notebooks. Yeah, okay, the building itself passed the vibe check.

But the people? They were all sorts.

A traditional Goth sat in one corner with her drink. A couple on a date shared desserts off of fine china. My own soda bubbled, and my sister’s tea steamed. A raggedy man, a middle-aged businesswoman, and an artsy type share a table and some sort of card game. Peppered throughout the building are young adults dressed in black. Someone knits. Another crochets. A third is drawing with confident strokes in a sketchbook. A couple of people are reading.

This is the scene I joined, waiting to find out what kind of experience the event would offer.

The first poet stood with trembling hands and a downcast gaze. She read her words as she had rehearsed. Her voice was even, but it seemed as though a tremble waited for only the smallest opportunity to creep in. Her poetry was good, but at the end of her segment, I was left uninspired. Unmoved. But not uninterested. Hers were words to devour with your eyes, not the sort that called to your imagination as a siren calls to a sailor.

The second poet took the stage. Feet rooted as those of mountains are, she began with a bang. Or rather, a swear.

Now, I don’t typically enjoy things that use vulgarity for shock value, but somehow, this time, it was perfect.

Galaxies and bones stirred my mind. Heartbreak and betrayal, alien to me, haunted my fabricated memories. It was raw. It was uncomfortable. It was captivating. Yet if I had just read it, with the emotions it sought to evoke confined to a page, I doubt I would have liked it.

The third poet took the stage and compared life to peanut butter. He had stage presence and a nice voice. The pomp and absurdity of his words should have endeared me to him. It didn’t.

I’m currently in a period of my life that requires me to read aloud nearly daily. I had already noticed that things which were pleasant to read weren’t always pleasant to speak. I was trying to get my thoughts together for a post about it when I was invited to the poetry reading.

And I saw my point in three parts.

What is it about a good storyteller that enchants us? What is it about the voice that can draw us into something we may not relate to? How can a good orator transform mediocre words into ambrosia?

I hopped on Google. I searched for what makes a good storyteller. It provided me with some tips on how to connect with an audience and how to enhance my writing. I switched to Google Scholar. I searched for articles about the parts of the brain that activate when being told a story. That yielded articles on lying, body language, learning, and culture. I tried to reword it. I came away with some, honestly, really very good tips on presenting. What I didn’t find was a consensus on what a good speaker does to us in the context I was looking for. An interesting link between listening to stories and listening to music, though.

So, until science (or the internet) comes to prove me wrong, I’ll go with this:

Some people just have magic in their voice.