Someone asked, ‘Do your poems have a twist?’
I thought about it and wondered if that was a loaded question.
She then went on to state, “I have come to realize that many of my poems have no twists. Right from the beginning you know if the person is evil or not… or dead or alive.”
I later entered a fierce debate on what constituted a great poem. It was filled with the critical factors of rhyming, rhythm, word-choice, presentation, etc. I truly didn’t know ‘write’ from wrong, but I learned a lot from the discussion.
When I was asked, I honestly could not come up with a ‘high IQ’ answer, and I felt weird; after-all, I was talking to a pair of attorneys, a young doctor, an architect, and an IT-guy. I basically spoke from my heart, smiled at the lunch crew and went back to work. I didn’t feel all that bad, either.
When I got home, I decided to write my feelings on here, while also proposing the very same question to the members here in our online community.
A poem doesn’t need a twist in order to be strong or good.
A poem needs a theme… and a great poem needs to be felt. Whether it is happiness, sorrow, contemplation, or wittiness… a poem needs to quietly say, ‘Remember me’. It is the foundation of song, the recorder of tales, and the forgotten art that does not wait to be a fad as it refuses to ever go away.
I am not the best writer and I am nowhere near the best poet. But there are times that I record what I feel and the written words to those feelings appear on the paper before me as they are called forward by the pen in my hand. I have found those words appearing during some of my darkest moments and my happiest escapes.
In my scribbles, I look at the lack of rhymes, the simple vocabulary, the poor use of punctuation… and I simply don’t care. I sneak a giggle and keep on writing as I promise myself to learn punctuation over-and-over-and-over again… in the future… sometime.
Other times I wipe away my tears and simply refuse to erase my hurt etched on the sheet before me. During those times, I have my worst arguments with God and often embrace the hate I have for myself. My friendship with ‘me’ is tested as the paper records our fight. I allow my readers to be my judge, so I work very hard to rarely share the event; just like many other ‘poets’ that can relate to me.
Either way, the end result of what I have created might be considered, ‘chicken scratch’, jibberish, and ignorant by many… it’s a fair thought and opinion, but to those who feel my message, feel my laughter, and is willing to rent my pain… then what I have written, is nothing more than our own form of poetry.
And guess what… there was no twist.