What Does Poetry Mean To You?

Are you a dreamer?

My 5th grade teacher covered writing poetry and taught me to be a writer. I learned I can express my innermost thoughts by penning or typing systematically in centered format straight down a page. When I got to the bottom of my piece there lay the bones of a poem, and not just some random made up thing, but something from inside, something that meant something.

My early poems reflected a lot of pain and sadness and I was a victim of bullying. I had nobody I could trust and my poetry was something I kept at. As it was my only release. I kept my poetry in a binder and when I was in my mid twenties I found out that the father of my son was going through my writing and accusing me of things. I ended up throwing my works into the woodstove and it has been hard to write ever since then. My purpose of this blog is to get my muse flowing and share my writing with others who appreciate poetry and do not wish to imprison me with it. I want to get inspired and be able to release so much through my writing that I have held back all these years.

So I have a couple old poems about my horse and addiction. The 90’s found me in rural downeast Maine where the evil drug companies found their perfect spreader, my mother. She had a very addictive personality and gave her medicine for some facial pain. Her and her friends found out they could use these pills in ways not directed by the doctor and my house became full of addicts. My friends became addicts. My schoolmates were showing up at my front door. Suddenly this girl who had been bullied so badly became more popular, but it wasn’t welcomed. I couldn’t seem to get away from the chaos. My mother got sicker and sicker and the sicker she got the more they gave her. She was getting huge tubes of drugs from the doctors. Her relationships crumbled and the rest is hell.

I kept writing. I even had a cool typewriter. One of the old fashioned ones with the ribbon. Sometimes I had to back it up to fill in a letter. My poetry lived on. I had a great journal. I wish I still had it. It got left behind in my life of turmoil. But, a few poems lived on. I moved on and lost more things, my typewriter was left behind. All my creative writing. My life.

Any time I want to write poetry again I really need to force it. I have found that writing a few haiku helps to get the juices flowing. Also typing things up on my computer reminds me of forming my first unassigned poems. Something to the degree of

The sands on the beach were taken away

By the wind and the waves on a sunny day

Each little grain went its own little way

Like a child going off into the world.

Tiffany Tate copyright 1995

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