On Writers

 On Wednesday, Dr. Rogers spoke on how the poets of the 17th century would call and respond to one another through their pieces. Ironically, I was blessed today with a piece by Kevin Dale Lundy (which I one day hope to share). It was a response to a piece I wrote in December. I was flattered and fell in love with it. So much so, that I intend on painting a piece based on our interaction.
 Often, when professors speak on poetry, I flinch or become uncomfortable. Though most of my professors have been writers of some kind, the vast majority have never written poetry. I always end up disappointed. For most of my professors, poetry has always merely been a bullet in their lesson plan. That is rough on someone whose lifeline is composed in stanzas.
 Dr. Rogers is the only professor I have ever had that has given a satisfactory definition of what a poet truly is. Moreover, I was moved by what he said. His definition took my breath away primarily because I saw myself in it, and it was revelatory for me; I realized why I compose the way I compose.
 I have lived my entire life trying to stop time. I have wasted so many days in efforts to put my life on pause. Dr. Rogers stated:

 "There is this constant common element in 17th century poetry of trying to stop time. All poets strive to stop time." 

  That is me. My writings have always been an effort to fully experience the succulence of memories before they are filed away in the rolodex of my mind. I know one day all of my emotions toward a particular situation will run dry. I long to nourish that wellspring for as long as I can, to feel it coursing through me with everything I have, and to create masterpieces with it while I still have the chance. 

  

 I love recording the process of falling in love, being in love, the process of grief, and the process of moving on. I am fascinated by the ongoing cycle of human emotion.

 God made me hypersensitive, not just emotionally and intuitively but physically. I am sensitive to light, sounds, smells, colors, temperatures. It is the most peculiar thing. It has only been over the past year that I have learned how to better channel my emotions. I used to be a wreck all the time. It is hard when you are easily influenced by a sound, or by a smell, or by the color of a scarf. But everything, everything--has poetry in it. There is magic at every turn just waiting to be written about. 

 If I am not writing then I am not doing my job.

 Writers have a major responsibility. Our calling is to capture the world--the exuberance of it; the sounds, the tastes, the smells, the tears. We must create beautiful things. Because there is no way to stop time, we must at least attempt to capture time. Over bold teas in delicately painted cups, we must place on paper everything that the weak world cannot see--so that they might see. Before it slips through the crevices of our fingers, we must let it spill over the brims of our spirits. And on leaflets, as fresh as morning dew--we must offer something much greater than ourselves to the world, so that the pursed lips of time will kiss the bruises of the grieving, and the ambitious stirring inside ourselves would be a contribution to the lifeless. Novalis wrote: "Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason." Our words--like honey--soothe the heavy laden, and offer breath to all the wounded days that have been stripped of time.