This
post is shamefully ten months overdue.
However, in my defense, ten months ago I was helplessly self-absorbed in
writing a long poem that, at the time, was my greatest obsession—from March
until July it occupied almost every passing thought. Even more bizarrely this uncontrollable
obsession was plaguing my dreams and causing me writer nightmares, which
mainly consisted of reoccurring visions of being full of interesting ideas yet
having nothing to write them down on. I
believe these nightmares stemmed mostly from occasions at the library
with my old and tired laptop and not securing a table near an electrical
outlet, which would cause me almost maniacal anxiety—I would literally sweat
with rage when people would sit at one and have hours-long conversation about
the most trifling of petulant knavery and peasant-affairs.
Anyway,
before I digress about something else such as the selfish creativity of poetic
self-absorption or perhaps an even longer tirade about how my obsession last
year was all for naught for no proper publishing house will ever want such
fantasy verse, let me get to the point of this little blog post’s raison
d'être: my publication in the Horror
Writers Association’s Poetry Showcase Volume IV. Among my meager four publications last year,
this poem, titled “My Little Green Secret”, was by far the most important and
dearest to my heart—not only because it was selected among the Top 3 of all
submissions which included making the cover of the anthology that published my
first poem just a year prior, but also because I actually enjoyed writing it. Sometimes poetry does not come “as naturally
as the Leaves to a tree”[1]
and can be rather painful to work out.
Other times it can be a little too ethereal and esoteric for some (even
for myself!) and have no real meaning other than whatever mysterious thoughts
were passing through my mind at the time—this is not always a bad thing since
proper poetry is oftentimes born from this random brooding and musing, but
sometimes—just sometimes—my strangeness can be a bit much. And because of this strangeness that
creeps into my writing every now and then, combined with other reasons and
inspirations (mainly from rereading Tolkien), last year I began writing more
narrative poetry which, as the term implies, aims to tell an actual story
complete with a clear beginning, middle, and end. I like to believe that with this poem, and in
just 35 lines, I was able to capture this sort of story-telling quality with at
least a somewhat clear beginning, middle, and unquestionably disturbing end,
and for that I am somewhat satisfied.
