Making Light of Things

Over the past few weeks in my poetry class, we've been delving into light verse. This has been something quite new for me, since I've never crafted humor through poetry - nor have I felt compelled to attempt it. Plus, the comedian slot in the family has long been well-filled by my wonderfully strange little imp of a sister, Kerry. 

Hence, I've gotten used to generally doing the laughing rather than causing the laughing.

See what I mean? However, our assignment for class this week was to write a light verse poem about a serious/dark topic. It wasn't much of a task to pick the subject matter; what better topic for me to make light of than depression?

So on today's bitter, gray, rainy morning, I set out to my favorite coffee shop, which houses my favorite writing nook (shoutout to Fuego; you guys are the best), to try my hand at light verse. 

I've written a great deal of poetry about depression in the past, but it was about as far from "light verse" as poetry could be. I often struggle to wrap my head around the stark contrast between who I am now and who I was exactly one year ago now. I don't feel like I've returned to the Annie who existed prior to depression; instead, I feel like an Annie who has been put back together in a new, happier, healthier way.

What a difference a year can make! 

I wanted to share that difference by posting 2 poems on depression: the first written about a year ago, and the second being the light verse poem that I drafted today. 

To anyone reading who may be struggling themselves: it will get better. Be patient with yourself.

I.

I saw you once, some time ago –

a year I can’t recall.

You smiled gently, breathed with ease;

free of demons; calm.

Darkness saw you from afar

and stopped midstep in fear;

an unmistakable, blinding aura

of glowing light appeared.

I saw you once more; time had passed,

you looked of later years.

But more than that, upon your face

were etched the paths of tears.

Doubt had seen you, coming closer

till you were consumed.

Esteem fell down and made a way

for dour, bitter gloom.

I saw you last in mirrored shards

of life’s old looking glass.

With tired eyes, my last surprise,

was seeing myself looking back.

II.

I suppose it’s not all bad – depression.

Now it isn’t my most prized possession,

as it makes me a bum, and it’s usually glum,

but free coffee’s in therapy session.

I’m no longer a good first impression,

so I won’t become someone’s obsession,

yet since it’s the season of campaigns, there’s reason

I’d rather be viewed with discretion.

And now I will make a confession:

I hate the "down in the..." expression,

but down in this dump, there are no words of Trump –

just a perk of my social secession.

I, too, sing of feeling oppression –

less renowned than that one Great Depression,

and less famed than the blues of the great Langston Hughes,

but perhaps leveled with the Recession.

This illness won’t help a profession,

save for leading a funeral procession.

But hey – on the upside, (sans carbon monoxide)

I do Sylvia Plath’s best impression!

*Stanza 4: referenced Langston Hughes and one of his most known poems, "I, Too" - if you're interested, you can read it at the following link - https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/47558

                  (I had a lot of options when it came to the Kerry pics; here are some leftovers hehe)

One of Those Days.

Today is one of those days.

Not the day you wake up tired,
burn your toast, and trip
on nothing but your own existence.

Today is one of those days.
Not the day you urge to pass
and semi-sleepwalk through,
forgetting even as you're living.

Today is one of those days:
when you walk a slower pace,
awed by traffic lights,
and floored that you've been granted life.

You smile at waving trees,
inhale the crisp Fall breeze like incense
as you're led in dance by Earth.

Today is one of those days. 

Yesterday, I woke up. I got dressed, I packed my backpack with all my books- journals, poetry books, a sketchbook, a notebook- and headed outside into a perfectly average Sunday. Except that as I walked outside holding an apple in my mouth (because what's a girl to do with full hands but the need to put keys in a pocket?), I was overcome by the immense beauty of such an average, Fall Sunday. 

So I went to get coffee and sit in the corner of the shop for a few hours, doing the usual: reading, writing, journaling, and people-watching (of course I'm back today, to write this blog). But yesterday, I sat and wrote freely about the feeling of that day- one of those days. You know the ones I mean- they're completely average. It's not like you win the lottery, or run into your favorite celebrity, or get engaged. It might even be, overall, kind of subpar.  

But in its all-encompassing normalcy, in its introverted insignificance, in its absolute simplicity... therein lies the marvel. 

For me, there's always one quiet moment where the realization plops itself down on my lap and fills me with a vast sense of wonder and serenity. 

It could be a moment between conversation during an early Fall morning, when you've just gotten home for a long-weekend's visit and are picking Fall raspberries with your mom in an otherwise deserted patch.

It could be a moment when you're weaving through the crowd at a cold, rainy morning's Farmer's Market with one of your closest, dearest friends, and somehow feel contrarily warm and sunny. 

Or, it could be a seemingly normal Fall Sunday when you walk outside to go get coffee, breathe in the crisp air, and are about take a bite out of a beautiful, sweet little gift from Earth. (And then inevitably, ever-so-elegantly drool a little bit when you stop mid-bite, mouth open and teeth lodged in an apple, to try to take a pic. And then laugh about it to yourself).

My free-writing scribbled over the course of many pages in my journal, but as I went back to try to use the scraps to form an actual poem, I found that there were two clearly different tones I'd written in. Therefore, I ended up dividing them into 2 poems on the unassuming wonder that was yesterday. 

The first was at the top, which I began with, and below you will find the second. They have a lot of similarities (can you tell I enjoy implementing repetition? or that we talked about iambic meters in my poetry class this past week?). I'm not sure which I like better, or which one does the feeling of the day more justice. But in both cases, please read with kindness (: and, during hours or days or weeks that seem like nothing to write home about, allow the beauty of the small moments to fill you up. 

Today's a day where Time must yearn to tarry.
(Isn't this impossible notion sad?
The way that Minute never has a longer 
lifespan than a minute; never has
a way to linger. It can only pass).

A day the Seasons- Winter, Summer, Spring-
and every transitional day between hear tell of
in their passings; not with envy, but with
longing for this marvelous day they missed-
a day of perfect alignment, coordinated grace
between our Mother (Earth) and Father (Time).

Today's a day each season dreams of giving
to carefree children romping, doting couples
strolling hand-in-hand, in-hand with Time;
compelled yet unconcerned by Day's restrictions-
bindings always whispering tick and tock.

Today's a day all weeks, and months, and ages
evermore recount with tender indulgence.
A Fall day so sublime, yet lost forever,
save for in the minds of those who notice.
Minute, Day, the Months, and Seasons see-
Today's a day where Time must yearn to tarry. 

Happy Monday, everyone (: 

What will your verse be?

As the rain consumed us all this weekend, I allowed myself to give in to those rainy-day desires: curling up on the couch in sweatpants with my journal, a cozy blanket, some grapes (maybe not related to the rainy weather, but hey, I'm just trying to paint the picture), and the ever reliable Netflix. I ended up watching a movie that has long been on my list: Dead Poets Society. 

"The powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?"

I've been struggling to write a new blog post for the past week now. After being absolutely floored by the amount of kind-hearted, encouraging, and loving responses you all so generously gave following my last post, I (very contrarily) became more worried about my next one. I've spent hours reading through poems from the past year and month and week, spent far too much time critiquing, editing, and re-thinking, and ultimately have been paralyzed by the fact that nothing seemed "good enough." 

How sad is that? How awful is it that we've been conditioned to fear our creative output's value based on others' evaluations? How terrible is it that too many of us are silenced by uncertainty in our ability to speak confidently, or make our voices heard, or be worthy of an audience?

As the incredible Robin Williams emphatically proclaimed (doodled above) in Dead Poets Society, 

"You must strive to find your own voice 

because the longer you wait to begin, 

the less likely you are going to find it at all." 

Therefore, this post will share a poem that I wrote spontaneously upon finishing the movie. I had turned the lights off and closed my eyes to sleep, but found my head full of thoughts and words. So, in the notepad of my phone, I wrote a 15-minute poem to try to convey my renewed appreciation for our freedom to create, to use our voices, and to have our own unique and limitless minds to explore each day, for as long as we live. Isn't it a wonder, too, that these thoughts might live on and be shared with those who are born past the boundaries of our lifespans?   

Here is that poem in its untouched, unedited, and imperfect form. But really, if you think about it, here is that poem in its truest form. 

As always, please read with kindness. 

Let us revel- as at the sky

            a child may dwell upon the stars-

in what vast expanse of the mind

            holds home to no limitations- no bar

whose ultimate height requires a stop,

nor path forbidden, nor door kept locked.

That we may wander in infinite creation-

            free of trespassing's looming worry-

should be each day a revelation

            of ponderings till the time we’re buried;

and yet, undying in intellect, soar

vicariously through our chimerical lore.

Self-perpetuated and unsurpassed,

            from age to age so grows the tree

whose branches hold, though long we’ve passed,

            the whims of us who dared to dream-

hanging, waiting beneath the sky,

preserved though far below we lie,

            whispering Pick us to incorrupt child.

Let's sweeten time with poetry.

September: National Suicide Prevention Awareness month.
September 10: World Suicide Prevention Day

1,100: the number of college students lost to suicide each year.
1 in 10: the number of college students who have made a plan for suicide.
20x greater: the increased risk of death by suicide for those who suffer from depression.
18.8 million: the number of Americans who suffer from depression annually.
>25%: the percentage of people with depression who receive adequate care.
#1: Depression is the leading cause of disability worldwide.

(A gem of eloquence, drawn from a poem by a much more artful Annie, but doodled by yours truly.)

The following is the first poem I'll ever share (!) in any sort of public setting. I'll simply preface my poem with what I feel is necessary background information. Just over a year ago, I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder. Many people haven't known, nor have I strived to make it known. However, this is not because I'm ashamed (though, unfortunately, society still has not quite erased the stigma associated with mental illness).

I promise that not all my poetry is grim- in fact, poetry generally acts therapeutically and makes me see beauty and art in the slightest of things. But I do feel that this is a topic we have no business glossing over or cringing away from. This is by no means an anecdotal poem and certainly is no depiction of my own life or experiences. It simply stemmed from a comment made by a customer at work who, upon learning I struggled with depression, exclaimed, "You?! But you seem like the happiest person in the world!"
Don't make assumptions. Remove the stigma. 
And please read with kindness. 
(I'm hesitant to declare titles for poems, and therefore often don't).

I moved to a city, which needn't be named,

yet to find what it may hold for me.

Of neighbors and locals, I asked for advice,

directions and places and faces I’d need,

but all told me most, and with uncontrived guise,

of the happiest girl that you ever did see.

One following other fell flummoxed to words

in vexing pursuit of veritable epitome–

was it grace? Magnanimity? Her rose colored frame?

They grasped in the air, though to capture a breeze;

elusive, essential, freely uncontainable–

tacitly felt before consciously perceived.

Cynic and skeptic each long had a shanty

upon a hunched shoulder, both of which I leased.

Yet one dour day as I held hands with shadows,

and grey was the only hue tinting my sight,

I sensed her. I saw her and thought, She must be

the happiest girl that I ever have seen.

I tried, in that moment, to comprehend she:

impossibly radiant, blinding, confounding.

Around her, an aura I felt embrace me

erased and renewed darkened passes with light,

a countenance showing what I’d ceased to see,

reverting me freely to childlike belief.

Returning each day, pulled like tides in the sea,

I watched and I pondered, supposed and observed,

and found myself wondering at night what she dreamed.

In transient moments, her eyes would cast down,

dimmed by despondent, anomalous cloud,

but ceasing before I could verify the scene.

A fortnight passed till we crossed paths on the street;

the hour was such that the moon watched drowsily.

With stature appearing to bear leaden grief,

she looked like the saddest girl I’d ever seen.

But when her eyes rose and beheld my advent,

my worry was quelled by her resplendency.

That was the last of her bearing I saw,

the night she’d proclaimed as her life’s apogee.

"A stunned city tries to make sense,” so they’d write,

and so in the paper I’d, dumbfounded, read

of the girl who had fooled us all, living to please-

concealment as natural to her as to breathe.

“Hundreds are wondering how this could be;

she seemed like the happiest girl they’d ever seen.”







Suicide Statistics drawn from
http://www.emorycaresforyou.emory.edu/resources/suicidestatistics.html
http://www.nami.org/Get-Involved/Awareness-Events/Suicide-Prevention-Awareness-Month

Mental Health Statistics
http://www.nami.org/Learn-More/Mental-Health-By-the-Numbers