It’s National Poetry Month and I want to, desperately need to find/return to the habits I formed years ago when I started this blog(s) and all of it’s incarnations. So I will share pedazos of works – finished and those I am working on everyday of this month.
Over the last few years though something has happened. On stage, on paper, and and on the internet, I’ve censored my voice because I became fearful of the scrutiny, the scalpel, of others’ eyes and their piecing together of my words, creating a story that is not an accurate representation of my feelings – forget history. That’s not to say that poesia, specifically my own, is not a reflection of my narrative. It is. Pero it is my narrative, which feels true only to my corazon pero may not reflect that of others who are intimately involved or who think they are.
Reconozco, I recognize that poetry is often about interpretation, pero only the poet really knows what she meant, or at least she fronts like she does. For me, it is often about what I don’t know. It is about the process unfolding under my pen, beneath the teclado. It is a channeling, lighting my fingers on fire and letting the ashes speak in tongues.
Abuela Lucia, I know you know what I am writing about.
So I do this, without apology pero tambien giving notice que estas son mis palabras. I own them and the place from where they are born. Everything else is just interpretation.