Say What You See
This week, I revisit my first creative love -- poetry.
Illustration by Ally Hart
DAY 2557 (51): TIME TO GET CREATIVE!
Creativity often feels useless during this quarantine. Some days, the only way I can truly express any ounce of creative energy is when I water my plants, or take a really good nap.
It’s not that I don’t want beautiful Instagram gurus telling me that I need to learn French, renovate my home, make a wardrobe’s worth of clothes, and write the great American novel (despite being British), but maybe it’s not what I need. Or what anyone needs, for that matter.
This week, just as I was hitting my creative threshold, I was hit with a brand new challenge. Take a look out of your window, and write a poem about what you see.
Does anyone need me to knock out the next Rupi Kaur collection? Probably not. I don’t even think I need to do that for me… but I was excited at this prospective rekindling of one of my first creative loves. I’ve been writing poetry in many different forms since childhood, and I was interested to see what a stimulant starved brain could come up with.
So without further ado, here is a collection of bedroom poetry.
Tuesday
did we forget
that the world is ending
did we forget that caring
that caring for our home
that caring for our shelter
that caring is kind
and good
a crisp packet on the ground
emptied two weeks ago
festering in the dust
did we forget?
***
Wednesday
i just see nothing
no discernible life here
nothing at all, kid
***
Thursday
i see you, greenhouse
holding your treasures
eating the sun
the limited shine that perks through oak
you are a fearless beacon of good in a town of noise and i am unafraid of you, greenhouse
for i know your secrets
your glory
i see you, greenhouse
***
Friday
Construction
Ate
Nearly
Ten
Sharp
Loving
Entire
Excellent
Pearls
Of
Rest
This
Horrible
Inconceivable
Not
Kind
Not
Optimistic
Weekday
***
Saturday
the cover of evening is a displaced woman on a saturday evening
she is a pollution of silence
her wind tickles my arms, and i am unable to sit still
too cold for young bones
unused to strain
for comfort
miss saturday evening,
will you cease
being a cruel mistress of the summer
?
—
I hope my words inspire some magic from your fingers this week. Instead of reflection, I will leave you with your own ‘poem week’ prompt. Write every day about an object in your room, and send me your wisdom. You can reach me @mossheadlives on Instagram and Twitter. Get writing!
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