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This Sound in My Head

January 14, 2014

My knowledge of poetry is really next to none. I only recently learned what a villanelle-style poem is and how to write one. That was because I’d Read Sylvia Plath’s only novel “The Bell Jar” and, in the back, I found her poem “Mad Girl’s Love Song.” I then wrote “The Killer and the Lover.”

I doubt I will ever write another Villanelle. Thank “God” for free verse!

On a couple of occasions, I’ve found comments I didn’t understand attached to some of my poems that had been linked to d’Verse ( I got the general idea and appreciated their thoughts. I just didn’t read it with the accuracy of which I’ve perused other pieces of the English language.

For instance, someone commented on one of my poems that a particular stanza sat somewhere outside the natural order of the poem (I’m definitely paraphrasing). I read the poem over with and without that stanza and didn’t see his point. I was very happy that the second part of that comment stated how neat it was I’d done that.

Anyway, I get this sound in my head and I write to it. It’s words strung into sentences, into stanzas, into verse. It’s how I feel, it’s what I think, what I know and what I’m learning. I don’t have a perfect idea of what I’m doing, but my soul seems to know. So, we’ll see what I can do with this sound in my head.

The following poem I wrote with tears and snot streaming down my face. As I repeated the words I wrote, my voice was little more than a growl and snarl. It’s written in paragraph form, but it is a poem. I don’t really know what to call it yet, but I’ll figure it out. As I redo my chapbook and build upon the manuscript with more illustrations and poems, I’ll include this poem.

“Sometimes I look back at my life and I don’t fucking understand. And sometimes I feel cold and I want to reject you because I know that this rejection hurts you and I take some twisted satisfaction from hurting you. I am cruel! I am cruel to myself. I am full of rage. I am holding onto hate. I am clutching to my hurt and I am hurling it back at you.”

In “spoken Word,” this poem would be screamed. I may have to scream it just once in order to feel it is complete.


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