Writing is easy. Just put a sheet of paper in the typewriter and start bleeding.
–Thomas Wolfe, quoted in Gene Olson's Sweet Agony
The three things that help writing the most are living, writing, and reading. In that order.
–Hisham Matar, in an interview in Goldlink
Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart...
–William Wordsworth
The Poetry of a Repressed Girl in Love
I would like to believe that my poetry was utter gold and more precious than the costliest gems. It was certainly what I believed when I was a girl. A part of me still believes this to be perfectly honest. However I've been struggling with baring the emotional underside to my, what appears to be, "strong" self. The interesting part of my poetry was that it allowed me to be open in a way that I was fearful of. In the world of poetry with its iambic pentameters, the free verse, haikus, the rhyming, the rhythm, the styles everything was a sanctuary for a soul that had little to rest or peace. Its structure is what gave me the boundaries of extoling my love in a world of chaos. I did not find rest and peace often. Certainly not at home with my parents and sister. Certainly not at school that held me in tolerant regard. Certainly not my classmates who I know begrudgingly included me at times and then other times I was necessary but usually to fill a position like catcher. I'd like to think that there were moments in my childhood where my classmates saw me more than as the bully and could sense the girl under the façade.
Poetry for me was a way to talk about my love for Arnold. I'd write, and write my love for him. I'd be hit by a barreling semi of inspiration. I'd write down phrases that I would finish into full poetry. There were times I'd write full poems on the spot. The poetry was full of eloquent phrases peppered with the vocabulary I'd learn through reading, the allegories, the anguish of an unrequited love, understanding love the best way a young girl could, and the symbolism I'd liken Arnold to. This extended to mythical heroes such as Prometheus, to physical attributes, to the traits I was so envious of because it was something Arnold admired. It was something that I felt an impossible impasse in which I'd never be able to cross. In return I'd then never be able to have Arnold look at me in the way he saw other girls, well, in one girl in particular. The one girl I hated because she was everything I was not. She was everything I wanted to be even it meant repressing the parts of my personality that I knew was naturally a part of me. The parts of me that was sarcastic, odd sense of humor, the sass and everything that seemed that I had allowed to spiral out of control. The parts of me that made feel so utterly ashamed when Arnold would give me the look of disapproval, the reproach or the inner thoughts of "why can't you be more like her."
It had made me angry. It made me despondent. It made regret so many times the harsh words or ambivalent morality that always felt inferior to Arnold and the girl he regarded as the girl of dreams. It made me do things I would regret in the end. I, on the other hand, always felt as if I was the girl of his nightmares. Those were the dark moments of my childhood. Then I drift through the ocean of emotions and Arnold would throw a lifeline that gave me hope when he'd see the inner parts of myself that I had walled around so securely. There were times he'd even find some parts of my abrasive self as funny or at least tolerable. Aside from Phoebe he was the only one that seemed to find the weakened parts and briefly get a view of the part of me I tried to hide so well. However my fear and anxiety would repair it so securely he'd wonder why I would, and wonder how far did the mushy part of me went. The times I'd felt relief as if I were in the desert who had stumbled upon an oasis. "Whatever you say Helga" to the times I'd build up my walls again. The moments I was happy to see that maybe Arnold would be persistent enough in seeing all parts of me and accepting me. Though I was always afraid that he'd be unable to handle me at the worst of times and reject me.
There was a time I had collected fourteen volumes of poetry. My soul was gushing forth the yearnings of my soul. I felt so utterly defeated by Arnold and the love his life, by my behavior and personality that I had taken a love potion, which turned out to be nothing more than, but my belief was so strong I had stopped loving Arnold. I had also rid of the things that I felt were chaining me to a life less lived. Life turned from the colors of pink, blue, purple to a muddled gray, everything blending together, the joie de vivre was gone. Not only had my love for Arnold been muted but my love and personality had been dulled. I wasn't the same girl. Arnold had noticed my behavior. My lack of bullying had been unnerving him. It had been as if our relationship had been defined by the ebb and flow of my mercurial personality of cold, and hostile appearance to my brief cracks that showed the warmness of my soul. The part of me that I wished courageous enough to show. I regained my sanity when I realized the foolishness of the potion especially when fake and saw the horror of my books being burned. I managed to save some thankfully.
Poetry was the part of me that gave me the security I needed. It gave me satisfaction of a starved soul desperately needing nourishment. If there was one thing I am particularly proud of it was this one thing: I had enough courage to turn in my poetry for our literature assignments. I was even nonchalant when Mr. Simmons would read my poetry out loud. I felt a little bit scared, thrilled and elated when Arnold would hear my poetry. It was my way of telling Arnold how I felt without telling him to his face. It was the way I would tell him indirectly until I was ready.
It was my lifeline. That lifeline always connected to two people: Phoebe, my best friend, and Arnold, the love of my life.
You are the beacon of my life.
-Helga G. Pataki
When strife pushes me to and fro
Like a violent cyclone—I'm gasping for air
In this violent whirlwind of fear, anxiety, and chaos
My ship creaks and groans in the chaos, I fear
For the tenuous sails that guide me, oft off course,
Oft in a place that scares me, to places that I wish not to go
Yet in the darkest nights, the in the stormiest gales
I find your light breaking through—It calls to me
It beckons me to the safer waters.
You give me shelter in the coves of your unconditional love
I find comfort and reprieve in the blue lagoon of your eyes
In the curves and lines of your face that exudes
Such positivity, love, bravery, kindness
And compassion that you sometimes extend even to me
How I fear to one day lose that ever constant light,
That beacon that you've become
May I never go to such a place where I don't feel you
And a place where you have turned off that light
Author's Note:
I plan dividing the book by the various expressions of love that goes from the normal to what some might consider obsessive. The last chapter is going to talk about the future. There is going to be about 6 chapters total if I am not inspired to write more. And I'm trying to write poetry but unfortunately I don't quite have the ability. I am very much aware of this. I'm not sure how to improve.