Confessions of a Reluctant Poet

It caught me off guard.

It was never my intention to come here to write poetry.

Instead, my writing journey started with a few articles on health and wellness— I was certain I was going to become a sort of fitness guru.

Those humble beginnings feel so far away now. Trust me, I tried hard to only write about weight loss and even made a few attempts to hop on the self-help wagon, but it was no good.

When I least expected it, I was pouring my heart onto the page, feelings completely uncooked. Soon, I was writing about relationships, sexuality, some fiction, and, most surprising of all, poetry.

How did that happen?

It caught me off guard.

Yes, when I was a kid, I used to write poetry. People would call me poet girl and other creative nicknames. I had tons of notebooks with line after line of my nonsense. Luckily, those pages are nowhere to be found.

However, as I grew up, I somehow stopped. Yes, I still liked reading and writing, but poetry felt so far away. Therefore, you can imagine my surprise when, in my late 30s, poetry made an unexpected comeback.

Basically, there I was, trying to come up with a creative new spin on the best strategies to do intermittent fasting when, suddenly, a string of words made its way into my brain — there was a melody, a particular rhythm…

Soon, I realized this wasn’t yet another essay. Not at all. This was a poem, and it demanded to be on the page. It invaded my mind; it kept screaming at me, not letting me think about anything else.

It wouldn’t take no for an answer.

I decided to capitulate.

So, yes, I surrendered and typed those lines onto my keyboard so I could see them on the screen. Then, I tweaked them a bit. Finally, when that was done, I dared to hit publish.

I honestly thought that was it. I was still reluctant. I was certain this was just an anomaly. However, a few days later, it happened again, and again, and again…

There I was, writing poetry almost every day, with no effort. All I had to do was open the faucet, and the music would flow. I kept on writing essays but, through all of my rough spots, through the anger and the heartbreak, my poems have been my loyal companions.

Poems from the heart.

I don’t fight against my poetry anymore. Quite the opposite, it feels like the most natural thing in the world to just engage in the beautiful dance of the heart and the mind.

And now, in one of the strangest years of my life — and it’s only July — I feel its support more than ever.

Recently, I had to end an almost 20-year-old relationship. Don’t worry; it had been dead for a while. I’m struggling to rebuild my bond with my son. I had to reconnect with my estranged parents. And, just a few days ago, I had to say goodbye to a person who is most dear to my heart, probably forever — I hope I’m ridiculously wrong about that one.

I cannot prose my way out of this.

Trying to filter these feelings through the constraints of a five-paragraph essay seems impossible. Instead, I need to cut my chest open and just let my soul flow so it can cry, laugh and curse at the fates as much as it wants.

Yes, I know I’ll go back to my essays. Believe me, there are things I need to explain. But, at the moment, I’m busy healing and mourning, weeping and howling, uttering giggles that morph into shrieks.

Don’t worry about me. I’m not lost. I’m just taking the long way home because, even if it isn’t practical, it sure is the prettiest one. How do I know? Well, it’s something I once read in a poem…