A long time ago, but not so long ago, I was a girl sitting in a window looking out at a lawn in England. I spent my childhood reading, and my teenage years dreaming of all the things I had read. More than anything I wanted to be a poet.
For my 18th birthday my best friend gave me a journal with the words “friends are worth holding onto”, which I used to write all of my poems in. Today that journal looks like this:
Sure, it looks a bit shabby after ten years bouncing around from bookshelf to storage to suitcase, but it’s still holding up. I emigrated to the United States five years ago taking only what I could fit in two suitcases: I didn’t take my wedding dress, but I took this book. But, strangely, I don’t think I had opened it for years until very recently.
You might have thought I’d have been embarrassed reading all those strange teenage thoughts, or squirmed at my awkward writing. I was expecting to do both of those. But I was actually surprised, and a little touched, by the words that I read. I’m not claiming that they are the best, but then perhaps the best ones never are the best. I was happy to rediscover this small part of me that was such a large part of me, and also sad to have lost that part to begin with.
I haven’t written a poem for over two years, and in the last years have only written maybe a handful in total. Ten years ago I was writing daily. I am writing this blog as an homage to that prolific dreamer, and am hoping that by exploring these poems I will inspire myself to start writing again.