How I ended writining poetry? (personal story)
"There are three lines in the biography of every human being, and they are never a horizontal and two perpendicular, they are three sinuous lines, lost to infinity, constantly close and divergent: ... what a man has believed to be, what he has wanted be and what it was. "
M. Yourcenar
However, I do not intend to be magnanimous at all. Maybe I'll talk more about tarot and religion in future publications. Who knows.
At the moment this does not seem to have much relation with the title of the post. Or so you will think.
But what are we going
My story with poetry began in the most clichéd and boring way possible: I liked a girl of my age, at that time it was 2010 and I was just 16 years old. She was a surprising girl in that intellectual sense that overwhelms you and alters your hormones. She was one of those girls who feel that you can not impress with anything really too big because you have your eyes fixed on other things. For some reason we became very close in the month of February of that year. We would forge our friendship, which would only feed my interest in her. I was just a Fool who did not know anything. Of course I had not written a single poem in my entire life (only fiction). However, I had a friend who did write poems for some years, and that was indeed recognized as a very good one.
(The magician)
(The fool)
When I say that I was a "fool", I mean the first tarot card, which represents the infinite possibilities that life brings. My friend, on the other hand, and as in all stories, was the next tarot card: "the magician"; In every story there is that character that helps the protagonist to awaken some power, some quality. In the real world it does not have to be to use a magic wand, or anything like that. It is enough that they teach you to do something that you like, that you mark yourself and that you then start doing for your whole life because you are passionate and define what you are. It could be just fishing. It could be writing like in my case. In short, to make the story short, my first poems were dedicated to this girl. Months later, and with much insistence on my part, we became sweethearts. Our relationship would last almost two years.
It was something that affected me. Then I started university, and gradually I would go through a dark and turbid period. It would not necessarily involve punishable acts, but a series of toxic relationships. At that time, I concentrated a lot on the readings of the classics of literature. Together with my friend and also a teacher, I would invent a literary training regime that would consist of writing a poem every day to practice. Then it would happen to be to write a story of 2 thousand words every day for a full week. Which we proudly could do despite the quality. It was something that in any case would release the literary muscles.
In 2014 I fell in love with another girl to whom I also wrote poems. It was a bad relationship.
(The lovers)
The toxic relationships mark you in a bad way because they damage the understanding and the concept that we have about love, and this can become a depression product of a trauma. There are many boys and girls who in adulthood continue to search in all their partners for that unfortunately toxic first love that marked them, because it is the primary reference they have about relationships. It is not something that always happens, but it does. On the other hand, people have always told us that in order to love others it is necessary to love ourselves. I personally believe that this is not always true. We can get to know ourselves, to be disgusted and to repudiate our own being. Self-contempt is real, and can lead to the most pathetic that a human being can feel: self-pity. The love that others feel for us helps to build that mental image of ourselves within our being. Our existence is within the idea that all others have of us. Our love can only be when it is reciprocated and when there is an object of that love. Without someone else to love us, it will be harder for us to find the reasons why we can love ourselves. And especially when we fall into depression. But this could address it later.
Yep, that is me
Poetry by: @seifiro
Angel face woman,
of lips like cherries,
with dark eyes like two almonds;
of melancholy look
in laconic profundity
that you keep quiet inside
the world is locked in your chest,
compressed in a sigh,
trapped like the boredom of one who wanders without destiny
Sing a requiem to your darkness,
that the words fall on these,
as rain on the tree canopy
and as also on the earth:
both yearn for these waters.
Then let your song reach the desert world
as if it were the morning dew,
opening the stage for the morning sun.
By that time he had been devouring Poe, Baudelaire, Pizarnik; Rafael Cadenas and many others. They influenced my poetry. I also read other Venezuelan authors besides Rafael Cadenas, but I will leave him as the most memorable of the still alive.
I stopped writing poems about love and about idealized women, and about idealized solitudes based on love for the year 2015, in which my themes began to be the city and society.
The day begins like a curse whispered in your ear.
The clock babbles tick ... tac ... tick ... tac ...
There is food on the table that no longer tastes like food;
every tomato is rotten,
each carrot looks like a mandrake;
the sugar is ashes,
water is a treasure in this desert,
and the air is lime that sticks to the lungs.
Going out on the street is listening to a symphony of expletives.
Chaos is the true face of urbanity.
Look at your surroundings, inspect every alley,
every trash can, every corner with rich and poor,
you will see the signs of the disemboweled spirit everywhere
and scattered like a black slime on the pavement.
God has put a knife in his guts
and shed with her last strength
a curse of blood on us.
In some strange, inexplicable and morbid way,
people exist in these conditions,
as a persistence,
like an angry roar
drowned in the noise of the radio
where you hear the voice of the red demon sing
lies that feed the souls of swollen bellies
who used to content themselves with eating his stool.
In this monochromatic world
which violently convulses,
it is a machine without a clock or a sense of time.
People are just old traditions.
The traditions persist,
the traditions sing, fight, proclaim the faith;
traditions serve and do not serve.
There are new traditions too ...
Traditions are the first forms
of artificial intelligence.
(The hermit)
Every day there was more putrefaction in the eyes of the people as well as in the fruits that were rarely obtained in the streets. Hunger became the norm. Walking more than the bill too. The infested streets of other human beings with eyes consumed by hatred and fear was heartbreaking. The streets were more and more dirty. Every day they were dirtier, more filthy; the facades of the houses became ugly because they did not receive paint. Everything went turning into ugliness. In the worst of the possible constraints for poetry. According to the tree of life, the center of the universe, that is, God, is beauty. That is, the harmony of all things. But in Venezuela... but in my town I was sentenced to look at the ugliness directly in the face of the houses which remain and will forever be the reflection of the spirit of society. A society is also what its buildings are in terms of forms, in terms of its architects and perhaps even its engineers.
However, I was trapped in that circle of human misery and filth where there was no respite or nepenthe for my pain or for anyone else's. And I know that like many in my condition, I went through many feelings and feelings every day which produces an emotional exhaustion, something that would greatly affect my quality as a writer. In fact, I think I stopped writing for a while, as I also walked away from a lot of people. People (in that Greek sense that means mask) that were repugnant to me as well as the simple memory.
I would drown in the sea of darkness of my own depression. Yes, I would continue immersed in literature, and while that happened, I was studying and doing a diploma in film. However, I could feel how had less strength each day. Every day it was harder for me to get out or create empathy for others. Depression, as you may know, is not the sadness we all feel when something goes wrong, but that can be solved with a good ice cream or a good suck on the dick. No. Depression is that mental illness that attacks you when you least expect it. It is the continuous and unremitting struggle with the shadow of your being, and in which it always seems that you are losing, and if not, it is very likely that you will lose. Depression consumes you, weakens you, locks you up; It makes you stay away from others, that you fill yourself with self-contempt and that you end up becoming a cold being without any interest in others. Yes. It is true that there are times when you feel that you can go out, but usually, the arms of hell pull you back to your breast. There is no possible escape. Except perhaps, and for those who have come this far in my story, if you suffer from depression, I can not say "encouragement". I just want you to know that maybe you are not alone, and that you never hesitate to ask others for help when you need it. Good Luck.
(The hanged man)
A girl helped me a lot in those final months of 2015. As a gift I wrote her a short novel. However, this truce would not doubt much. My depression would make everything to lose. And that's how I spent the whole year of 2016 without writing practically anything. Alone. Depressed. Hardly being able to leave my house. Seeing my life being consumed from the inside out. Suffering from malnutrition, which fortunately did not happen to majors; feeling and knowing that the society in which I live would simply break the social contract and return to the "state of nature".
Violent and sick people wherever he looked.
I saved some books as the only two of the trilogy not yet completed "Chronicle of kings slayer "; "Tratactus logicus"; Metamorphosis, by Ovid; several re-readings of Kafka... I was totally away from poetry. However, when I started writing, I only wrote about guilt and about death. My inner self felt guilty for my love failure at the end of 2015. And I insist: many do not know it or do not understand it, but books can save you from that which consumes you slowly and silently. 2016 was a catatonic state for me. 2017 allowed me to gain new strength. I did a lot of interesting things that year as I started teaching, and therefore I had my first students in college. I was passionate about talking about literature, about Kant, Nietzsche, when I got into pure philosophy. Or about Oscar Wilde when he needed to talk about aesthetics and poetry. He also talked about journalism. I taught how I could to my students what real journalists are coming for: to shape minds.
2017 was a year that also represented protests in Venezuela. But protests unleashed in a real fight to end the regime of Nicolás Maduro, which has had us locked up as victims of a kidnapping in a prison country in which the ominous, as the breakdown of the social contract, broke. But more than 200 deaths, and a military tank doing disasters in front of my house, did not end Chavismo, nor would the elections. That made me understand that the exit of the dictatorship is not found in the streets nor in the electoral under any circumstances. At that time I had written some poems. My main theme was still the city and society, but it would change progressively until today in the metamorphosis of things, people and the world. But at the end of the year, I would begin to write my most ambitious story: a Gothic fantasy novel, for which, in the first hundred pages I had few clear ideas for the plot, but an aesthetic definition for both the characters and the world. in which they develop.
One of my great inspirations would be the way in which Tarantino manages to make his films with a thick but subtle mixture of references to works that have marked him. Thus, according to me, all those years reading philosophers, and consuming both fantasy literature and Japanese role-playing games, would bear fruit in a work that I have not yet been able to complete.
Finally, in early 2018 I met and started here in Steemit. I already had some experience in blogs, and I have not had any regret to share my writings. In addition, the most striking, that is, the monetization had made this more than necessary for me. Next, I will omit all my development within Steemit as I have spoken in previous publications. Now yes, and returning to poetry. The possibility of making some money in Steemit, along with his feedback have been two things that have given me reasons to continue writing poetry. I like to write and they read me; and that when they read to him, this generates something, a vote, a comment, an opinion, a criticism. That is beautiful. I could not improve if it were not for the words of others. Although it is clear that the fact of improving itself is in myself. It is the result of what I do. Normally I know my poetry, and I know why the punctuation marks go in such a place when it could be in another one; or when they do not carry any. I love those literary licenses that return me to my readings of James Joyce and William Foulkner.
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)But what is poetry for me? I believe that poetry is in essence a question that responds to itself as it is constructed. It is like the word "bridge", there it is, in the middle of two unconnected ends, and in that medium there is only a fall towards the void. The bridge is built from the conception of the word and the need for it to exist between those two points as the connection between them. It appears little by little. First the supports, then the road. So also poetry goes. They tend to be images in harmony, sometimes in a metric that guides them, but independently of the latter, poetry requires the aesthetics of the symbolic. Then, poetry is faith. And what is faith? Two flowers holding their stems to the weight of God.
And now that you have arrived here, I give you this song:
Posted from my blog with SteemPress : http://seifiro.timeets.xyz/2018/08/10/how-i-ended-writining-poetry-personal-story/
This post was shared in the Curation Collective Discord community for curators, and upvoted and resteemed by the @c-squared community account after manual review.
Wow. Thanks!
I understand you very well, I found a shelter in Literature and poetry. I can express all my feelings of anger, frustration, disappointment and so on into a nice or sad story. I think it's a therapy. Let me give you my upvote in your wallet :)
Todo lo que nos duele, es todo lo que somos. A través de la literatura constatamos que nuestras heridas también están en muchos otros individuos con nombres largos, melancólicos y amargos. Un viaje así es algo que creo vale la pena hacer. No todo arte nace del hecho personal del sufrimiento del artista, pero algunos saben expresarlo sin imponer sus egos.
Gracias <3.