I used to write poetry. A LOT. When I was a dumb and “angsty” teen. When I somehow wanted something in my life that I didn’t have, which was drama and pain and things I saw my friends go through. In those days, I dramatized my emotions. If my feelings were hurt, it was more than just my feelings. It was my heart, in physical agony, wanting to beat out of my chest and smash itself on the ground. If I was mad, I was incensed and the person who angered me would die in the horrible fire of my un-containable rage.
I feel like I’ve lost the ability to write metaphors, but I think maybe that ability was maybe only left behind as I got older. Though, in all honesty, I really don’t buy that. I think the first concussion I had, which was the worst of the three, knocked that ability out of my brain. I read somewhere that could happen. When my doctor confirmed I had a concussion, I did some reading up on what this would mean.
And then #2 and #3 happened. People roll their eyes at me sometimes when I tell them I have a horrible memory because I’ve had concussions. But it’s true. If I don’t write something down, I will forget it. But the act of writing it down, helps me remember.
Or, maybe there’s just some stuff I don’t give a shit about.
That will forever be a mystery.
Anyway, I got off track there. Ever since that first concussion, I HAVE struggled with writing metaphors. I’ll never forget when I discovered this fact. After I had mostly recovered from the first head bashing (which was inflicted upon me by none other than my faithful Hell Hound — short version: brick wall headed pit bull mix smashed into my temple at full speed), I tried to write a story based on the title of an anthology my friend and I were going to write together. The title was, “The Monkey is Real” or something like that. I had started a story based on this title from a metaphorical perspective. After the concussion, all metaphor was lost. I had no idea what I was trying to write and I could not think of any metaphorical story to put behind those words: The Monkey is Real.
I try to avoid purple prose anyway, but sometimes you just need a good metaphor or simile.
Which brings me back to poetry and the question title of this post. I read some poems by Nayyirah Waheed this morning, and they were so short yet so poignant, and really evoked a ton of emotions in their brevity. I feel like if I try to write poems again, as well as an outlet for the crazy moody emotions I experience on a day to day basis, perhaps I can pull my inner Metaphor (a mythical creature who I envision looks like Okja) out from hiding deep within the recesses of my mind. And maybe in doing so, the other memories I have lost will resurface and my short term memory will be restored!
It’s worth a shot… right?
Morning Pages here I come (which means getting my ass out of bed at a reasonable hour… oy…)
Peace and Keep Writing,
Claire L. Fishback