Friday, August 20, 2010

Today, I wrote a poem.

This is the kind of statement I like. It is short, it is easy to translate into different languages, and it is true. I’m beginning to like these kind of sentences more and more. They are free of grammatical errors; they are safe. I thought I’d write a new blog post today, because I’m in the mood for such a thing. It’s sort of like being in the mood for a good cup of tea, or a chocolate cake, but more like the former.

I wrote a poem today. It was about my life. It was about how this writing business can be tiring on the mind that thinks writing ought to jump to the nearest metaphor. Even that sentence right there, the one you just read, I really, really wanted to give you an example through simile, but I didn’t because I just couldn’t bear it.

Metaphors are the writer’s tool, that’s true, but for me they have become almost dreadful things. Perhaps it is because I am afraid of drawing connections between things where I will see one thing and you, the reader, will see quite a different thing. But that is a fear I have about more than just poetic metaphors. Perhaps you know the feeling, like when you have something very sensitive that you would like to say to someone, but this sensitive information carries many connotations with it that are not true. And so this wonderful tool we as a species have: speech, language, complex communication skills; it has all failed us.

You may have noticed this. This is the first blog entry on this site in two years that is written both -about- me, and in first person. This is significant. I want to tell you that I feel like a child, but I know that some potential employer might look at this blog and think negatively on that statement. Yet still it is how I feel. Being a child implies immaturity, unreadiness to join the marketplace; the grown-up land. Being a child implies naivete, or a lack of experience, wisdom, and judgment. Still, when I hear a friend tell me he’s fallen in love, I think back to English class in 9th grade. When I hear a friend tell me how she can’t stand her coworker, I think back to the lunch table in grade-school.

I think about that one boy who thought he might be becoming a man, the boy who was afraid of writing, and I think how how that boy could be me.

I wonder if he has a name. Perhaps I could have tea with him sometime.

You can read my poem here: Friday, August 20, 2010

Posted in Blogging, Poems by Preston on August 20th, 2010

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