I used to doubt poetry.
I never really, believed in it. I had feelings for the artistry and the craft of it, turning words into prose, but I never really had that kind of attraction towards words that are placed in a specific order, to what we “think” is a poem. There is so much open-ended uncertainty in poetry, that often times at first glance may seem illegible. What makes a poem? That is up to the poet. Is rap poetry? Is any form of play on words poetry? What about spoken word? Is long-form writing like this essay poetry? I could call my tweet threads poetry if I wanted. Works of art that are often misinterpreted, misunderstood, and too overrated. I refused to acknowledge art that had no intention of being art.
My own mediums of expression has always dangled in what I felt more tangible. Like in dance and film. I believed strongly, that when I moved, I was manifesting the internal towards the external, there was something physical that someone else can interact with, and can feel what I am feeling. The stories that I tell through video, can bring out emotion, and relation, that I can constantly replicate and make worth something. At the very least, I grew up being told that these things are more worth something. People would much rather sit through a movie, or watch dance, than read one-liners. There was a sense that poetry was for the “atas” (Singaporean slang for the upper-class), and I wanted my expression to be more accessible to all. I believed, in my head at least, that these mediums were more solid that simply words on paper, requiring work to be done, and as a result these expressions hold more value than poetry.
My relationship with poetry draws a parallel with my relationships in love. There is a strong narcissistic demand for what is tangible, what is real. A stubborn feeling that what I express in love must equate to something. Something that shows that I have put thought into it, something that can directly benefit the other person, something that I feel deserves to be loved.
I came across old screenshots of poems that my ex-girlfriend wrote when we first met. All of a sudden, I was brought back to a time of passionate love. Words that never really made sense of me, which I could only appreciate the beauty of the artistry, now rang like a time machine pulling me into a part of the past I wish I appreciated more. It is like… going to a museum, and seeing all these paintings. So much beauty. But does it stir you? My heart yearns for these times again. I remember all the feelings I used to feel, and all of a sudden I realise, how words are so powerful.
Poetry is an intimate capture of the soul made legible
I want to tune this idea of legibility, towards maybe something more practical, before reverting back to the beauty of poetry.
Through the anxious breakdowns of the past half a year, I began experimenting with the being able to make the chaos I felt internally legible. It manifested mostly in these experiments of kinaesthesia and Somatics that you would see on my Twitter, which later develop into Interintellect salons. Apart from that, a kind of realisation that may be difficult to see till you begin approaching it. The fact that just by, trying to put your fears into words, and asking yourself why, that you begin realising the chaos in your head. I would say this is somewhat the power of journaling that I have covered before, as I tried to approach how I use Roam Research to Journal with my friend Tracy. It is easy to say, if you journal, you will be able to achieve so-and-so. But the actual process, is less of journaling, but more of this idea of being able to make your internal world legible, to give them a word or a say in the external, physical world, something you can interact with. The manifestation of the internal world towards the external, a translation of a language intuitive to you, made to be able to be understood by many.
Comparing to some of the Design Thinking ideas that I have learnt from IDEO in my short online course of “Leading With Creativity” with them near a year ago. The idea of prototyping; You have this grand idea that you want to make real. You begin by designing a prototype, a material object you can interact with, something that triggers your senses. From there, you begin to learn the flaws of the piece. There is something different, when you are interacting with something in real life versus within your own thoughts. Those that have tried to make their ideas a reality would probably understand, and I don’t want to move into the realm of causation saying that you would be able to achieve X by doing “10 Easy Steps”. There is a certain mystical truth in simply intuitively learning through interaction, that I wish to not deny. To make legible, our ideas, is to be able to create and place something that we can interact with.
So how may we, put into words, the chaotic and indescribable language that we have in our head?
The answer begins in questions. In asking, the world on the inside, “What are you trying to say?”
As I struggle to write this piece, I ask myself, what am I trying to say? I… feel a sense of longing, wanting to express how it feels to let the words come out. Like a deep cry that you never knew you had inside you. To put into words, even small parts of the puzzle, to at least be able to see a little bit better of the bigger picture.
And like my friend Bardia once shared with me:
A religious writer asked for a word of wisdom.
Said the Master, “Some people write to make a living; others to share their insights or raise questions that will haunt their readers; others yet to understand their very souls.”
“None of these will last. That distinction belongs to those who write only because if they did not they would burst.”
As an afterthought, “These writers give expression to the divine - no matter what they write about.”
The truth is, I don’t have a clear cause for the words I am writing either. I cannot promise a gateway to the soul through writing, through making things clearer. There are toys that break, designs that fail, and poetry we will never be able to understand.
I think… we just have to begin by giving our souls a voice, and allowing them to speak, in whatever form that manifests in.
I never really understood poetry till I came across these old words written by someone I loved deeply. An expression to the divine, that needs no striving.
Only the Honest Survive
and the Truth can only be realized by the honest.
Something slightly different this week. I tried to write in the more soft-spoken mannerism that I tend to speak and behave in. This piece sort of flowed out of me, and I realise that I don’t really offer any concrete examples of how to be legible.
Concretely perhaps, begin by asking yourself questions. Work your way outside in. Not in aggression, but in gentle easing. Like a breath filling your lungs.
Here’s an example of something I did on Twitter a while ago, trying to understand myself outside in.
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