Recently, I’ve been thinking in poetry. As a writer I’ve always had those beautiful lines that lodged themselves into my thoughts, and clung tight until I finally put them to paper and wrote something around them. In December, I started posting short poetry – micropoetry? – on a new instagram account. I’d been buying more poetry, and reading poetry online, for most of 2016. Those clinging thoughts reshaped themselves as tiny poems, complete or halfway there. I step on a thought, a theme, a word – and a poem blossoms around it like a time-lapse video.
A freedom has been unlocked in me by poets like Rupi Kaur. Small, raw verses that sting and soothe. I was scared, at first, that I was merely writing mundane diary entries and adding line breaks. Convinced that someone would come along and tell me that I wasn’t really writing poetry. That it’s not so easy. That hasn’t happened. My account is growing slowly. A poem of mine was featured on 2 popular accounts that showcase poetry they like. I began to feel confident sharing with strangers.
Then someone I know started following me. I’m sure they found there way through the accounts instagram recommends, because they follow my personal account. Three or four people I know follow my poetry now. None of them have said anything to me about it. They found it, they read and like my poems. It’s terrifying, but I’m grateful. Poetry demands a vulnerability like nothing else. In fiction you can hide your truth in a character, in a blog post you can explain and justify until it’s comfortable. Poetry is pure thought and emotion, accepting that some people won’t understand.
I’m not yet ready to link to my poetry on facebook, or to my big tumblr following. But I’ll get there. It will be scary and worth it.