I‘m at work. I’m at the last few pages of my notepad and realize that these pages aren’t empty…. the data is written in red. Why? was I angry? or was that the pen I was using at the time? Who knows. So I read it. I remembered writing it. Then I decided to post it. Keep in mind that this is before I started writing again. This is probably what triggered my blogging. here goes:
I used to write…
found my love of poetry during my freshman year of college. Ironically, thinking back, that’s also when I found love. True love. That ride or die love. That “no matter what love…love no matter what”.
I took this one class. He was real. Knowledgeable. Passionate. He taught me that it wasn’t important to rhyme. He taught me to count. listen to the beat. count. No, it didn’t have to rhyme, but it had to have a rhythm.
True love. It has a rhythm. I was in love, didn’t “see it coming….and the next thing I knew, unconditional love.” He was my friend first. so loving him was easy. our love had a rhythm.
Anyways, back to Mr. Teacher. he was different. He wasn’t refined looking. his beard was…patchy…tightly curled. like he had no interest in it’s upkeep. But he had a beard. And when he spoke, there was base. And he counted. Rhythm. His base carried rhythm. And he had a beard. and his beard had grays/silver. And he had my respect because he had gray hair and a beard and he was intelligent and his base carried rhythm and now I realize that he reminded me of my dad. Not nearly as handsome, but bearded, base, rhythm. Music was a part of my dad. he loved to whistle and sang and played the guitar and he taught me, so many things. This teacher…I don’t remember his name. I remember him because he helped me cultivate my love of poetry. He told us about a poetry reading on campus where Imamu Amiri Barack would be speaking. I went. Took love with me. Love found the poetry reading a little humorous at different moments. but he was there with me. I loved that. and at the end, he appreciated being there. That was many years ago….
And so my love of poetry grew with the years.
I used to write… what happened?
What happened is…
I got tired, overwhelmed, underloved.
Overworked and underappreciated.
Full-time mother, employee, lover, sister, daughter, friend.
I used to write about/to my daughter, but she became a teen and so we talk. About everything
I used to write about my men. But they were all the same. Ever seen “Orphan Black”? Same faces, different personalities. Yeah, like that. Just Reversed. Same damn personalities,characters, lies, disappointments, just different bodies/faces. Living it was one thing. Redundant. So I wasn’t going to write about it anymore. Redundant & Stagnant. I hate both.
So now I’m a mother of 2. It’s time I start writing again.
My first is 16. Newness.
My second is one. Newness daily.
and I’m trying to create a new man.
Not like I’m God.
But like an angel hard at work. This creation is mental. I know what I can love. I know the kind of man that I want to love me. the creation is mental. and so God will spin the universe in such a way…and breathe life into my creation.
What happened is, it’s time.
I think Mr. Teacher would approve of this. There’s no counting. no rhythm. This is not poetry. This is prose. He would approve.