Poetry Heals

My first poet was Emily Dickinson. I think she’s probably first for a lot of people. Her works are approachable enough and well enough known for any beginner so sit down and recognize.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.

Most of us know this one and can recite the first stanza or at least part of it. I don’t know if it’s the most well-known Dickinson poem, but it’s got to be top three. There is something comforting to me about the poems she wrote. Perhaps it’s my own penchant toward melancholy. I can be a touch dramatic. The thing is, for all the books I’ve read over the course of my life, I never touched poetry until college. Sure, poems were assigned reading in middle and high school. I never sought out books of poetry though. I think part of me always assumed that poetry was a bit above me. It was for fancier people. I wrote poetry because I wanted to be fancy. But I didn’t read it.

That seems like a contradiction, I know. When asked to pick a favorite poet for a report in 9^th grade, I chose a Christian singer and a song she wrote. I justified that songwriting was a kind of poetry. It was a kind of arrogance that I must’ve sold well enough because the report earned me an A. I didn’t understand or appreciate the complexity and nuance poetry offered. It’s always been easy for me to rhyme. I’ve Weird Al’d songs my whole life. I assumed poetry could be distilled down to rhyming. No one took the time to teach me otherwise. And I certainly didn’t seek out the education to teach myself otherwise.

I’ve spoken a bit about the stringent morality that I adhered to through my youth. I was one of “those” Christians. You know the ones. The ones you turn around and run away from because all they do is judge and condemn. The ones who believe fully in their uprightness and that their path is the only true path to salvation. It makes me nauseous to think about who I used to be. I’d love to sweep it under the rug, pretend it’s not there, and let my life as I live it now speak for itself. I can’t talk about poetry without spending a bit of space talking about myself and who I used to be. It sets up the framework for the kinds of poets that I found and who shaped me profoundly once I knew to look for them. As much as novels were an escape, poetry was a journey of introspection and self-reflection. They held up a mirror to show me who I was and who I had the capacity to become. So, indulge me a moment in speaking about who I was.

I was a terrible person. The worst kind, because I was so assured of my virtue. I wrote poetry about my “faith.” I created villains of humans just trying to live their lives to their best ability. I wrote about things I didn’t understand but was told were wrong. I took it all at face value. I attacked mercilessly with my written word. And I was utterly convinced that Jesus approved wholeheartedly of my actions and behaviors.

I could explain it away. I could downplay the damage I probably did to people in my zeal. At the end of the day, I was cruel. I took what I was taught about God and used it as weapons to devastate “nonbelievers.” I was confident I was doing it for their own good. I surrounded myself with people who held the same or similar beliefs and never questioned for even a moment whether I was missing the point of Christianity entirely.

All through this, I wrote. I composed poetry to persuade sinners to repent. Sermons to uplift believers in their faith—so long as it aligned with mine. I acted in plays and sang in choirs at church and in events all working to the same purpose of “bringing others to Christ.” I thought I had it all figured out. My life path. I was going to be a youth minister (because I was taught that women didn’t lead churches) and I would be married to the pastor of a church. We would shepherd our flock to eternal damnation all in a bastardization of Christ’s commands.

At some point, toward the end of undergrad my writing started to shift. I started to question. In part because I started to actively question my sexuality. College introduced me to all kinds of people. Good men to whom I should’ve be attracted. Books I’d never heard of. Musicians that started to open things in me I didn’t know existed. Movies and television shows that would never have been watched had I still lived at home. My poems, plays, and short stories started to be less about “saving” others and more about questioning whether God actually intended for us to essentially hate one another.

I got a job at a Christian bookstore during my undergrad years. My first manager pulled me aside one day and offered me a handful of CDs he thought I would like. He was paring down his collection and there were some musicians he specifically felt like I needed. I wasn’t ready for them. I turned them down, but he offered me Ani DiFranco and Tori Amos. Two women who would later become pivotal along my voyage of self-discovery. In that moment, though, I saw sinners that I wanted no part of.

When I finished undergrad, I didn’t immediately go to grad school. I took three years off. Most of that time, I worked as an assistant manager in another location of the same Christian bookstore chain. When I started grad school, I went back to the original store where I worked, returning to part time. I wrote poetry nearly every day. It was my escape. I smoked clove cigarettes in my car, listened to Tori Amos, and wrote. My poetry was no longer about Jesus and the evil of sin.

These new poems were about the complex beauty of humanity. The faith that I believed Jesus actually called Christians to lead: one of love, hope, and acceptance. They were also my first attempts at exorcising my demons. I remember I shared one poem with co-workers that had a line saying something to the effect of we shouldn’t judge or hate homosexuals. The disgust that one line evoked is something I will never forget. (Granted these were the same people who told me I was going to hell because I voted for Barack Obama. One said, in the middle of the crowded store, “How can you stand before a holy God and justify voting for that man?” The hatred that dripped from her could’ve left scorch marks in the carpet beneath her feet.)

If I could erase all these years of horrible behavior, I would happily do so. I am miles away from this person today. I still judge people on occasion (old habits die hard), but now it’s based on how they treat others. It you act like a dumpster fire like I used to, you get the side eye and probably an earful about how to not be a dickhead. God help you if you come at me with Bible verses about the evils of sins because I can and will quote back at you and put you in your place. One of the positives that came from my upbringing is that I can lay a pretty hefty smackdown on people who want to wield the Bible like a half-loaded weapon.

The things we consume help shape us if we let them. In positive ways or negative ones. I shifted. I changed. I fell in love with poetry. These new voices that whispered about mysteries I didn’t know to even dream about. There is something innately holy about poetry. It’s beautiful. It’s seductive. It’s challenging. The right poets can lead you down a path of discovery so unexpected that you couldn’t possibly return to who you were before you met them. For each person, those poets are different. My poets won’t necessarily be your poets and yours might not be mine.

Each left their marks, little ink spots creating a kaleidoscope on my soul. I mentioned last time that my former creative writing professor introduced me to Audre Lorde. The Black Unicorn was one of the first poetry collections I bought. Every poem in that book taught me something. I still have the receipt—long since faded—tucked in the pages marking my last stop through the book.

I’m not sure I can pick any single poem to say this is the one. This is the piece that sparked the wildfire to burn away the chaff. Audre brought the matches, Emily piled the kindling, Rilke doused it with gasoline, Pablo Neruda was the wind to stoke the flames higher, TS Eliot and Edna St. Vincent Millay danced in the firelight, and WB Yeats said a prayer of benediction over the ceremony.

I am everchanging. The beauty of poetry is that it can shift shape as well. A poem that looked a certain way to you years ago may look different today. A stanza may read a different way now that you’ve lived a few years. A line that once devastated may be the healing balm for which your soul is searching.

What poems changed you? What poets taught you things about life you’d never thought of before? What lines bubble in your brain? When was the last time you wrote a poem?