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~ A blog documenting the muses, thoughts, and musical endeavors of a girl on a neverending adventure.

And Now, We're Off!

Category Archives: Poetry

The Poet

02 Thursday May 2013

Posted by thetreehuggingminstrel in Journal, Originalzzz, Poetry, Think, Think, Think...

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E.B. White, essay, poem, poetry, The Essayist, The Poet, thoughts, writing

E.B. White is one of my favorite writers. His language is so enthralling and poetic, fresh and transformative. I can get lost in his words. This is an essay I wrote hugely inspired by E.B. White’s The Essayist. What would you define in the prose of the wonderful Mr. White?

The poet is an ambitious individual, enthralled by the mysteries of human nature and convinced that it is his or her duty to figure it out, to pick apart its bones, to interrogate it as it recoils in its metal chair, all shriveled and wrung out of information. She is an observer of the complex universe humanity strives to, but can’t, have. She spends her time in thought, much like how stargazers spend their time in awe. Each new venture of the poet, each new exploration, is an added layer to the question, whatever that question might be. This enlivens the poet. Only someone with such naïve idealism can create poetry, as a poet writes to resolve.

The types of poems are as many as the types of Jelly Belly flavors, poem voices as varied and unpredictable as the disposition of a three-year-old. The poet comforts herself in her arsenal of verse, selecting her choice of shield, sword, bow, or arrow, depending on her reason for battle: love, defense, remorse, revenge, confusion, release, inspiration, denial. I love the poem. I always have. It first entered my childhood in the form of song, and its abstract layers of discovery captivated me. I threw my thoughts into the concise yet adaptable format, and to this day, it remains my weapon of choice.  But poems invite haziness, a quality I see some may find uncomfortable. The poet must be content with ambivalence if she is to imagine a solution to a problem no human can solve. One with pragmatism best not be a poet. A poet is messy, a poet is confused, and a poet creates a world in which this disarray is the fuel. Someone looking for answers would not find consolation in poetry, as poems are ongoing explorations of humanity, asking and asking, but they never—though they get unbelievably close—get answered.

People flock to poetry for compassion; Compassion: from Latin cum “with” and passio “suffering”—the word literally means “sharing pain”, and this is what I think makes poetry so appealing. People are tired of being told how to fix their problems, and there’s a certain liberation in sharing the tumult of finding a solution. This is the glue of poetry: the unification, the use of human vulnerability to rile up the masses in a movement to figure out life. A poet has this power, and therefore, a poet can be dangerous. A poet must be wary of becoming “preachy”. She must keep a humble check and remember what drew her to the fine words of poetry in the first place.

This, of course, is a difficult balance to strike. It is human nature to want recognition, as I so often find myself wanting. In fact, I consider vanity my biggest vice. Poets are philosophical in nature, always writing and questioning in order to know more, a blessing as well as a hindrance, as questioning can lead to self-doubt. For example, I question myself in the writing of this very essay. I advise poets not to “preach”, a statement verging on hypocritical. Did I not just “preach” myself? How can I dare to instruct others if I cannot even straighten out my own doubts? Given that poetry is less about the answers than the journey of thought, perhaps I am asking the wrong questions. A poet is hazy, yes, and often gets caught up in the “why?”, as I just did. But it is this very mind-war that bolsters the compassionate verse poets produce, the war that inspires the poet to reach into her arsenal and fight through her uncertainty.

The poet is an ambitious individual, one without a sound destination—yes—but determined nonetheless. For someone to find the poets that revel in ambiguity is shocking, yet incredibly freeing. The poet recognizes the place of humanity, acknowledges that we cannot possibly know everything, and knows that the world is bigger than the people inhabiting it. I have wrestled with the idea that I cannot solve everything. Swinging in-between knowing and not, there was no concept of “figuring out” in my mind. The poet has showed me the gray areas.

And now, I can be at rest.

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Poetry is Like Pooping…

19 Sunday Aug 2012

Posted by thetreehuggingminstrel in Poetry, Think, Think, Think...

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poetry, quotes, sarah kay, Spoken word, writing

Here’s what I like to tell people: Poetry is like pooping. If there’s a poem in you, it has to come out. Sometimes it comes out easily, sometimes it takes a great deal of effort and takes longer than you want it to. But it needs to come out. And you can quote me on that.

                                                     ~Sarah Kay

Good Lord I love Sarah Kay. For me, she’s right up there with my top 3 favorite spoken word poets. If you haven’t already seen it, I strongly urge you to watch her TED talk. It’s beautiful, insightful, funny, cute, and eep…

 

 

The Sea

26 Thursday Jul 2012

Posted by thetreehuggingminstrel in Originalzzz, Poetry, Think, Think, Think...

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beach, ocean, poems, poetry, sea, summer, writing

I went to the summer rock on the bend
I caught your heart and it broke my hand
It twinkled like stars and said, “My friend,
You won’t be alone. Just pretend.”

He was eighteen and far from home
With God-worn hands and words tall as the sun
He said, “Don’t wait for me, time will come
When I’ll come sailing home.”

I’ll walk with you to the edge of the shore
To the East and back like never before
Just wait by the sea and sing some more
I’ll come sailing with treasures of lore

We went to the summer rock on the hill
We threw our hearts out into the sea
So that yours and ours may swim free
We’ll twinkle like stars and light up the sea

Undefined

29 Friday Jun 2012

Posted by thetreehuggingminstrel in Originalzzz, Poetry, Think, Think, Think...

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God, life, love, poems, poetry, writing

What is love?
Is it want? Is it blind?
Is it fiction of one’s mind?

Clueless, no wonder. Desperation takes over.
Want fills the heart and turns the bright blue sky red.
Bare feet are raw from walking too long
Down a road that was long gone and dead.

But fear it not, for ahead lays the Truth.
This road of blood and tears leads not to him, but to You.
Is this it? What I need?
This is where my heart takes heed.

Now tell, what is love?
Is it truth, not blind?
My heart tells me love is Undefined.

The Power of Words

23 Thursday Feb 2012

Posted by thetreehuggingminstrel in Journal, Poetry, Things I Wish I Wrote, Think, Think, Think...

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life, Music, poetry, stress, words, writing

There are a multitude of directions I could go in when I get stressed, sad, angry, or downright moopy. It’s actually quite scary. Being the emotional person that I am, I either:

  • take a reeaaaally long shower to some screamo music and pretend I’m moshing in the rain
  • lock myself in my room for a substantial amount of time and sleep…then later wake up and feel horrible for wasting half the day
  • eat a lot of nutella and tell myself that it’s okay because it has milk in it
  • wallow in self pity and watch a chick flick and then feel even more moopy afterwards

Or… I take the much healthier option: read or listen to some beautiful words of wisdom.

Poems, novels, songs: any and all of these have an innate power to lift me out of the deepest hole. It’s miraculous, really.

Here are some words that lift me out of a dump. What do you do to de-stress?


“So I Thought” by Flyleaf is one of my all-time favorite songs. Though frankly, I’m not exactly sure why. These words just gave me comfort; I used to have the lyrics pasted on my closet doors so I could read them before I descended into dreamland. I’m so emo sometimes.

Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson
I really am my own worst enemy. One of my many faults is focusing too much on the past. I beat myself up about little mistakes I have made. It’s self-destructive and utterly pointless. This quote by the ingenious Emerson has helped me tremendously. 


Source: Buzznet
Three words I hate saying are: I don’t know. My huge ego gives me this unnecessary need to know all things. This helps me remember to slow down and realize that I’m not God. 😛

Have an awesome day ya’ll.
Trish

A Letter to My Little Brother

11 Saturday Feb 2012

Posted by thetreehuggingminstrel in Dear [insert name here], Originalzzz, Poetry, Think, Think, Think...

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brothers, childhood, children, growing up, poem, poetry, writing

I want the curiosity of a child
the endless opportunities to speak up
until the world tells you to be quiet
I want the open eyes
until you grow to learn to look with your judgment

You don’t know the beauty
of the twinkle in your soul-windows
when someone finally decides to listen

it pains me
and I’m sorry we don’t listen as much as we should
you see, when the rest of the world grew up
our eyes remained open
but our wonder became blind

the world will discourage you
don’t you dare let them
because the way your eyes shine
is the way you reach into the dead wonder
of a grown up vision
and say “wake up”

but you, you with the curiosity of a child
the heart of a whale
and the mind of a minstrel
I know you will keep your eyes open
even when the people around you can’t

you’re beautiful
and I pray you’ll believe it

Dopamine

23 Monday Jan 2012

Posted by thetreehuggingminstrel in Originalzzz, Poetry, Think, Think, Think...

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dopamine, God, poem, poetry, writing

You
oh you.
you with the smile
the hands that see
the eyes that feel
the ears that know
you.

God dumped you on my doorstep
with a note attached
saying
“this will make you feel”
because He knows that’s what I need
He’s so darn clever.

and feel I did, feel I do
your nervous tick
the twitch of your fingers
the tap of your worn out shoes
resonate feeling unlike any I know
you’ve rendered me feeling-ful
and frankly, I don’t know what to do

why did He put you here?
I’ve never known God to be one of games
but then again I’ve never known God very well at all

You.
surprise at my doorstep
heavy as a red wooden heart
was it your idea to knock?

Dreams: Through the Eyes of a Ten-Year-Old

21 Wednesday Dec 2011

Posted by thetreehuggingminstrel in Adventure time!, Off we go., Poetry, Things I Wish I Wrote, Think, Think, Think...

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childhood, dreams, life, little brothers, perfect world, thoughts

I have the best little brother in the world! I swear on it. He’s creative, funny, energetic, and so darn cute. The capacity for creation and thought this little ten-year-old has never ever fails to surprise me. I swear, his mind is way too old for his body :).

Here is something he wrote that I think is ah-mazing:

What is your Dream?

Do you have a dream? Everyone does. Everyone around you has one. It may be to be a race car driver. It may be to be pretty. We know everyone has one, but what is a dream? A dream isn’t just something in your head that you think about. It’s something you really want to happen, something that you maybe even need. What is your dream? My dream is a perfect world. Not a world with war or riots or protests. Not a world where everyone is greedy. Not a world where criminals roam the streets. No. I want a world with peace, a world where there’s no such thing as bad news. A world with no suicide. I want people to wake up in the morning confident. Confident that they’re worth it. Confident that they’re world is cheering them on. I want this world to be nice to the environment. To plant trees and forests. To build no factories. To love.
You know, sometimes the best dream is the one that helps you help others. To help your environment. To help the world.

So, what is your dream?

Dream on!
Trish

Am I Allowed to Hurt?

03 Saturday Dec 2011

Posted by thetreehuggingminstrel in Journal, Originalzzz, Poetry, Think, Think, Think...

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hurt, pain, poem, poetry, thinking, thoughts, writing

Am I allowed to hurt?

Am I allowed to say what nobody wants to hear?
The things that conflict me and confuse me? Am I allowed to?
Because frankly, I’m scared to.
And I know that it bores you.
But my mind is rewinding and my heart is on pause
close to overheating since I can’t say what’s wrong
And I can’t find the words that make up–whatever this is–
‘Cause there’s wall in my body
and it’s made of 10 ton bricks.
It’s just, I don’t know.
My mouth is a coward.
And I don’t know when my thoughts should stay inward or outward.
And since I don’t have permission quite yet,
I’ll stay quiet. Because from the looks of your judgments
I’m not allowed to fight it.

Am I allowed to cry?

Am I allowed to lose it? Because once it comes out
I don’t think I can stop it.
My home tells me they’re healing waters
but my masters say they’re shameful.
My heart has no part in this going-nowhere battle.
Because crying is weakness; crying is mortar.
When will tears become an in-between, just water?
Because pain just is,
And pain just hurts.
Am I allowed to feel without feeling remorse?
Give me permission, or at least a letter,
Or perhaps just a writer and sender.
Because I’m tired, and weak, but no one is witness.
No one will know how much I’m allowed to miss this.

BRICKS: Conquering My Worst Enemy

20 Thursday Oct 2011

Posted by thetreehuggingminstrel in Journal, Originalzzz, Poetry, Think, Think, Think...

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inspiration, life, obstacles, poetry, writer's block, writing

Writer’s block. Yeah, you know what I mean. Writer’s block is probably one of the things that annoys me the most, which sorta sucks because it tends to pop into my life a heck of a lot.

Like now…

But the best part of writer’s block is conquering it, arresting it for its heinous crime of suppressing creativity, and then locking it in a cage so it can stay there (until it becomes smart enough to pick the darn lock).

So what do you do? Write about it.

~~~~~~~~

BOOM.

There it is.

Walls, gates, iron-wrought bars; they’re all the same. they’re all the same.

When words slam you like five-pound bricks, you damn well feel it.

When bricks slam into you like five-pound words, you fall with them

and then suddenly collapsing houses don’t feel so liberating.

It’s nice to see you again, brick wall, my dear friend.

It’s been a (not so) long time. Trust me, you haven’t been missed…

No offense.

Maybe, just maybe, this time I’ll enjoy the fall

instead of going down kicking and screaming.

Because no one likes a fighter…

except for those who have something worth fighting for.

And guess what, dear bricks

I’m fighting for something worth a lifetime more than your stupid mortar.

So don’t expect me to stop in front of your rock hard façade

because I know how delicate you are.

Delicate, a wall made of feathers wearing armor.

I will blow you into the wind

I will tip you into oblivion

I will sing you jigs and lullabies

and fight fire with fire.

So next time we meet, dear friend,

I’ll be ready

with thoughts as my shield

music as my poison

and words as my bullets.

Until next time,

Trish

 

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