I have recently begun to attend a poetry workshop where poets have an opportunity to have their work critiqued by both established writers and novices alike. One of the more interesting comments that have come out of the workshop is that one attendee proclaimed that he would like to ban the words love, heart and soul from any new poets’ vocabulary, the reason being that the words have been prostituted so much over the ages that they have just lost their meaning, or in the very least the immediacy that they once were so full of.
I thought it was an interesting concept considering the fact that as of date both my heart and soul have been taking an immense pounding and the little bit of love that I had left stashed away like an “emergency cigarette” encased in glass with Break in Case of Emergency emblazoned on the front has been smashed open and smoked up by some hollow, codependent coward with really pretty hazel eyes. I wondered of a life without the words love, heart, and soul. Not particularly the concepts, just the terms.
I thought it was an interesting concept considering the fact that as of date both my heart and soul have been taking an immense pounding and the little bit of love that I had left stashed away like an “emergency cigarette” encased in glass with Break in Case of Emergency emblazoned on the front has been smashed open and smoked up by some hollow, codependent coward with really pretty hazel eyes. I wondered of a life without the words love, heart, and soul. Not particularly the concepts, just the terms.
How would I be able to describe my various states of emotional disrepair? The words are so unyieldingly tethered to their meanings… it’s like coming up with another word for Mother or God. I don’t truly think a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. I think that if we called a rose a piece of shit… it would have a little taint to it. And like mother or God, I think there are certain words that never go out of style. Love, heart, and soul are the new black for me… they go with everything and they’re timeless.
I think it’s because those words can be so succinct in their meanings that their simplicity can make people embarrassed by the amount of weight they can hold. When you consider yourself to be a highly educated individual, I think it might be humbling to find yourself taken aback by words with only one syllable. I’ve noticed in this workshop of enlightened/elitist poets and writers that what gets them off are words like entanglement, disillusion, allegory, barnacle, zephyr, melancholy, sociological… I’ve been trying to come up with a piece that uses extranoematic or supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.
But in the meantime, I’ve been writing about how my soul has remained this tightly packed little ball of homemade soap that never ceases to clean me no matter how small it gets or dirty my situations, how I imagine my heart to resemble a magnificent compost heap made of bright Technicolor wet garbage that is slightly rusted on the sides, and how the years have chipped away my ability to love somebody, but I did find a way to stash the little that I had left away like an “emergency cigarette” encased in glass with Break in Case of Emergency emblazoned on the front and when it was smashed open and smoked up by some hollow, codependent coward with really pretty hazel eyes… I knew how my mother felt, and I prayed to God… and while I feel a little better about the situation… it still fucking sucks.
I think it’s because those words can be so succinct in their meanings that their simplicity can make people embarrassed by the amount of weight they can hold. When you consider yourself to be a highly educated individual, I think it might be humbling to find yourself taken aback by words with only one syllable. I’ve noticed in this workshop of enlightened/elitist poets and writers that what gets them off are words like entanglement, disillusion, allegory, barnacle, zephyr, melancholy, sociological… I’ve been trying to come up with a piece that uses extranoematic or supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.But in the meantime, I’ve been writing about how my soul has remained this tightly packed little ball of homemade soap that never ceases to clean me no matter how small it gets or dirty my situations, how I imagine my heart to resemble a magnificent compost heap made of bright Technicolor wet garbage that is slightly rusted on the sides, and how the years have chipped away my ability to love somebody, but I did find a way to stash the little that I had left away like an “emergency cigarette” encased in glass with Break in Case of Emergency emblazoned on the front and when it was smashed open and smoked up by some hollow, codependent coward with really pretty hazel eyes… I knew how my mother felt, and I prayed to God… and while I feel a little better about the situation… it still fucking sucks.
Even still, I don’t think I’ll abandon love, heart or soul… the words or the concepts. At least not just yet. I’ve got a lot more game to play here in this pin prick world of self conscious elitists who’ll challenge my soul, handsome assholes who’ll break my heart, thesauruses to help me interpret the love I have for them all.
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