Poexistential
A Writer's Tale of His Poetical Existential Crisis
"An existential crisis is a moment at which an individual questions the very foundations of their life: whether this life has any meaning, purpose, or value."
From Wikipedia, Existential Crisis
I'm a poet by blood. Sure, I can spin a tale in paragraphs and complete sentences, but it's in stanzas and verse where I thrive. I'm no king among poets; I'm not even published, but I've always thought myself at least decent, able to create something that could draw oohs and ahhs from an audience. My opinion changed quite viscerally, however, one night after hearing complete strangers read their poetry.
The scene was summer at the Logan library, a small room, a smaller gathering of people, and a public forum to share writing. I went alone, hoping to beat that stubborn beast known as Writer's Block. I thought that perhaps hearing others might help facilitate my own writing. Of course, Writer's Block became the least of my concerns as the meeting progressed.
I was stunned by every syllable coming from the microphone. Hearing these masters of meter, these viscounts of verse, left me feeling, quite frankly, worthless. They seemed to have such power over words. How could my meager scratchings on the rock of a cave wall compare to the least of these marvels on the domes of the Sistine? How could my papier-mache poems stand up to these marble-carved stanzas?
They can't, if I'm to be honest. They just aren't good enough.
My poetry, unfortunately, has traditionally been focused mainly on two subjects: love and death. Every word that could be said has already been said on these subjects. There are hundreds of masterpieces putting my frail phrasing into structures more eloquent and poignant than I could imagine. What is even the point of trying if I am just echoing a shadow of the words of the masters?
After leaving the library, I wandered the streets in despair, questioning the value of writing, if composing poems had any purpose anymore. Slowly, with each shuffled step, I began to realize the answer to my crisis. I had no desire to be great when I began writing poetry. These delusions of grandeur came later as peers praised me. No, I did not begin the journey of writing to become a household name, nor did I start to supplement my income with commissions or book sales. I began writing simply for myself. There are ideas and emotions I can only convey through poetry. There are pieces inside me that I need to remove to examine to understand them, and poetry is the only surgical tool I know that my shaky hands can operate.
What should I care if my poetry is worthy only of my mother's refrigerator? It's not meant to outshine others; it's meant to illuminate myself. It's an exploration, an adventure, to seek out who I am and what I could be. Comparing my verses to the greats' can only bring feelings of worthlessness and despair. That's not why I write. That's not why I should write. I found on that summer evening that I write to find myself and that I find myself through poetry.
From Wikipedia, Existential Crisis
I'm a poet by blood. Sure, I can spin a tale in paragraphs and complete sentences, but it's in stanzas and verse where I thrive. I'm no king among poets; I'm not even published, but I've always thought myself at least decent, able to create something that could draw oohs and ahhs from an audience. My opinion changed quite viscerally, however, one night after hearing complete strangers read their poetry.
The scene was summer at the Logan library, a small room, a smaller gathering of people, and a public forum to share writing. I went alone, hoping to beat that stubborn beast known as Writer's Block. I thought that perhaps hearing others might help facilitate my own writing. Of course, Writer's Block became the least of my concerns as the meeting progressed.
I was stunned by every syllable coming from the microphone. Hearing these masters of meter, these viscounts of verse, left me feeling, quite frankly, worthless. They seemed to have such power over words. How could my meager scratchings on the rock of a cave wall compare to the least of these marvels on the domes of the Sistine? How could my papier-mache poems stand up to these marble-carved stanzas?
They can't, if I'm to be honest. They just aren't good enough.
My poetry, unfortunately, has traditionally been focused mainly on two subjects: love and death. Every word that could be said has already been said on these subjects. There are hundreds of masterpieces putting my frail phrasing into structures more eloquent and poignant than I could imagine. What is even the point of trying if I am just echoing a shadow of the words of the masters?
After leaving the library, I wandered the streets in despair, questioning the value of writing, if composing poems had any purpose anymore. Slowly, with each shuffled step, I began to realize the answer to my crisis. I had no desire to be great when I began writing poetry. These delusions of grandeur came later as peers praised me. No, I did not begin the journey of writing to become a household name, nor did I start to supplement my income with commissions or book sales. I began writing simply for myself. There are ideas and emotions I can only convey through poetry. There are pieces inside me that I need to remove to examine to understand them, and poetry is the only surgical tool I know that my shaky hands can operate.
What should I care if my poetry is worthy only of my mother's refrigerator? It's not meant to outshine others; it's meant to illuminate myself. It's an exploration, an adventure, to seek out who I am and what I could be. Comparing my verses to the greats' can only bring feelings of worthlessness and despair. That's not why I write. That's not why I should write. I found on that summer evening that I write to find myself and that I find myself through poetry.
8/3/17