Wild Wednesdays #4

I write poetry. Okay, this is somewhat bookish but it’s not to do entirely with reading so it counts right? I am not sure I write good poetry but (according to my creative writing prof, I don’t) but mehhh. I used to only write poetry and stories seemed beyond me. That changed. The thing is, I can’t connect to “professional” poetry because they seem so structured, so technical that they lose the sense of feeling they are supposed to promote. You are not supposed to work hard to see what they mean, it’s supposed to hit you while you read it. Like Neruda’s poetry. Anyway. I write poetry as a form of catharsis.

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I wrote this in the summer after I watched the news about a little Afghanistan girl who died after being caught in a crossfire. I don’t remember her name nor do I remember the details and that makes me sad but this was my response.

Once upon a smile in a desert
starved for cold, a feeling was born and
here’s a song to you, Soul,
for as blackened as you have become, there
is hope for you yet, your eyes wet with tears still
and once upon a yearning on a winter morning,
time stood still and questioned its own existence and
what beauty breathes in little organized sentences so that
once upon a sunset, a father buried a daughter he
hadn’t yet seen grow up and a mother wept for
that transient life so that the world would know for
a moment that her light too had flickered brightly for a
second before once upon a world where songs have
lost their music, she was stolen from her childhood and now
once upon a whisper in the dark someone
will shed a tear which may just be a scribble on
paper but once upon a broken heart, someone will remember her
and she will exist for just a minute again.

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