In some respects, the subject of today's both falls into both categories. Last December a comment was left on an edition of Flickr Favourites by a gal named Ashlee who wondered if I might share some of my poetry here on this site. As I've only mentioned - ever so briefly in passing once or twice (so briefly in fact that I can't even recall off hand which post, or posts, I might have done so in) - that I write poetry, I was touched that she remembered I'd said as much, and even more touched that she wanted to read some.
Without writing an
To begin with, I'm not a professional or (formally) published poet, but I've never sought publication, so that pretty much explains that, now doesn't it? ;) I'd not be opposed to publication for the tiniest of moments, but for me writing has always been its own greatest reward, and something that's been an incredibly integral, and even vital part of my life quite literally since I learned my ABC's. I began writing poetry as a child, accelerating and honing those wordsmith skills as my youth progressed.
It was during those years - some the darkest, hardest, most painful of my life (believe me, I'm talking about far more than run of your mill teenage angst and drama here, but would prefer not to go into great detail about such things at this time) - that I turned heavily to poetry. I wrote through oceans of tears, when I was elated, when I didn't know if I could face another day, when just about all I had in the world was a pen and a notebook of lined paper.
I wrote and I healed. I wrote and grew, loved, learned, lost, found peace, reclaimed my soul, became stronger, triumphed over my aggressors, and stood to fight a whole new set of battles that life was waiting to throw at me as my teen years wrapped up. I believe with every last fiber of my being that poetry was my salvation then, and it is for that reason that my sole tattoo (near the inside of the elbow bend on my right arm) – done by a less than stellar, but technically professional, tattoo artist when I was seventeen - reads, in nothing more than classic black ink, "poet". Poetry saved me and in turn I - the poet - saved myself.
In the years since then I haven't written as heavily at all, nor has what I put down on paper (more often then not, I still prefer to write my poems down on paper first) always been as, how shall we put this delicately, heavy, as the pieces I wrote as a teenager, but they're no less meaningful, important or personal to me, and that may be part of the reason why, up until now, I've never really delved into the subject of my poetry here before.
I won't lie to you, my poetry - generally speaking - is considerably darker than the chipper tone which I generally write my blog posts in, but it wouldn't be being true to my own voice as a writer if I rummaged through all my poems searching for the most upbeat ones simply to keep the mood light as a feather. What I share here today with you then are four poems, written at various points over the past seven years, which I feel capture the spirit of my poetry.
And then there was silence
In the hour of a lifetime,
when a voice once present for eternity has vanished,
and despondence calls out in its place,
all sense becomes irretrievable.
Every tiny spat and misgiving ceases to exist,
in the breath of tragedy hangs only the beautiful and blameless.
Rests sorrow in the wake of calamity,
torrid, un-nameable emotions of bewildering intensity.
Warm tears beget a frozen existence,
nothing soothes and all wounds.
Never are gone the gestures,
the rearing of your very being,
fondness ever-present intensifies with a momentousness that has no equal.
For in the instance of absolute loss,
found is the love which will carry you on.
♥ ♥ ♥
Decrepit juvenescence
We are the young; these days, I know will, not last.
I see them fleet away like a reflection caught in a passerby's review mirror.
Life, they say belongs to us, to those who are still wrinkle-less,
buried in worry,
but still fresh enough to pull of appearing carefree.
Hard bodies, sharp curves,
reluctant to come across as anything less than perfect.
In time we will look back wistfully, sighing and bemoaning over what we had,
never fully aware of it in the glistening moment.
Tomorrow may loom just a couple of breathes from our grasp,
but it is inconsequential to all but a few.
Those who lost their innocence – one way or anther,
taken or given, snatched or forgotten – before it ever had a chance to begin.
We are the young, but I am the old.
♥ ♥ ♥
When destiny intervened
The years flutter,
peppered with hardships that have strewn lines like fallen twigs across our souls.
We were those very beings that went atop a hill,
sipping from medieval goblets and presiding over rock star carpets.
The serenity and power of a secret,
long black eye lashes and nervous hands.
Should I tell you that I knew, that I have always been able to read you like a picture book.
No.
Everything is wonderful, impeccable and sublime exactly as it unfolded.
Under heavy, sleet gray stone walls and shimmering chandelier light you asked
and I replied the ultimate truth: yes.
Nothing can replace the feelings,
the euphoria and anticipation,
and nothing, my beloved, could ever take your place in my heart.
♥ ♥ ♥
To have and to behold
Should we lead or should we follow,
these days of turmoil where happiness
is as elusive to define as eternity itself.
In the breath of each others' souls
we find that every moment becomes bearable,
and every woe eventually a faded memory.
(All poetry © Jessica Cangiano)
♥ ♥ ♥
It is always sweet when a reader asks for something specifically, and whenever appropriate, and possible, I'm happy to honour such requests. Thank you very much, Ashlee, for wanting to see some of my poetry, that is an immensely lovely thing to be asked.
{Woman Writing at Table by Thomas Pollock Anshutz, oil on canvas, 1905.}
In many respects, my inner poet shines through in most of what I write here on Chronically Vintage. Just as poetry itself helped to get me through some very hellish years, so to does my blog writing serve as a continual catharsis when it comes to the chronic medical problems that consume so much of my daily life.
I know that so long as I draw breath on this earth, I will write, be it poetry, blog posts, letters, journaling, or anything else. I need to create the written word like I need oxygen to survive. And like air itself, my words go with me wherever I do, always ready to spring to life at a moment's notice and help keep me fighting the good fight, pen and paper never far from reach.
