“I Am Not Yours”
I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.
You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.
Oh plunge me deep in love — put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.
Today, April 18th, is “Poem in Your Pocket Day,” and while the evening is almost over, I thought it worth while to share at least some form of poetry. This particular poem by Sarah Teasdale speaks volumes to me as I continue on this strange and frustrating path. Was I wrong? Was I not? Was it circumstance? Was it me? Was it…well, was it simply just a big mistake?
Sometimes - scratch that - most of the time it’s easier to ask questions than to answer them. It’s easier to ask ‘why?’ than to take the risk in answering. Because really…who’s your audience? Again with the questions…but, in most cases we are speaking to ourselves. Why did he say that? Why did I say that? How can two people, living within each other be so in sync with each other, but at the same time so out of it?
Circling back to the poem, I’ve begun writing creatively again; it’s amazing what a little bit of distress will do for the creative soul. One of the avenues I’ve begun exploring is poetry and I’m enjoying this new voice, these new words and patterns of writing and expressing myself. My students have just finished up a series of poetry workshops spread out over six weeks. It was amazing to see and hear what they had to say - I think we forget that teenagers are little people, caught half way between child and adult. They have so much to say! In writing these poems in class, I see some of these students taking risks, expressing themselves truly without fear of rejection and judgement. It’s amazing how a few lines, in a non-sensical order will make us feel so much better, so much more understood or heard.
The teenaged years are such a turbulent time…I remember being so incredibly angry and confused…and even more confused and frustrated because I couldn’t figure out how or why I was angry and confused. I keep thinking that if I’d had some sort of outlet - poetry, song, writing, painting, whatever - perhaps I’d have been a little happier, and potentially a little nicer.
So, in the spirit of self-expression, enjoy this little poem for what it’s worth. It may not speak to you, you may not get it, but that’s the beauty of poetry. We can take whatever message we like from it, molding and morphing it into our own little personal mantra, fanning it out in front of us when we need it most.