I don’t remember writing my first poem. I suspect few poets do.
It was probably something dark, because it gave birth to a light. It was probably something bitter, because it taught me to see the sweetness. And it was probably something hurt, because something about bestowed a healing power unlike no other.
Poetry, to me, is a language of its own. It bastardizes its host dialect, as if it’s a tree that’s taken millennia to grow, and can be carved into a gentle figurine and a pointed knife in a matter of minutes.
I can’t speak much for the other languages, but I have butchered English in more directions than my tongue can bend alone.
Like I said, I don’t remember where it started; but I know where it’s been. Spread out over thousands of verses, is a life like my own. Snapshots of adolescence, self-discovery, parenthood; relationships, religions and regret that are documented for life.
We exist in a world where credentials make the career and to that end, mine are pretty sparse, but I consider myself a poet by heart and not education. I see a father and husband in these lines, not an expert of whom or what came before me. I never wanted to be some literary elite, only a bit of inspiration for those seeking their own voice.
I don’t leave my poems to history, but to hope; I don’t write for circumstances, but solace from them. Poetry is the only thing in the world that’s made me feel I wasn’t completely broken, and I hope somewhere in all the years of writing included on this site, you will find a story, a feeling, or a thread of hope you’ll be able to follow to a language of your own.