Do I write from memory? You'd think I'd say yes, perhaps, because whatever touches me - whether it's the hum of the wall from the drill bit in the flat next door, or the snoring of my little sister, or the stony sweetness of a packet of juice, or the oily smoothness of a keyboard - it will all be reflected in my memory and stay there. But the thing is, I don't want to write about renovations, the appearance of someone else's dream, food, or dirt. I, you know, want to praise the lace of light, the glow of blue ribbons and the roundness of convex mirrors - basically, everything that has never touched me. Because I've never seen light speckled through the holey canvas of clouds. I never wore thick blue ribbons tied under my breasts. I have never been painted against a convex mirror. But I write about them, even though they were never in my memory.
My god, I don’t know. I’d say mostly my poems are concerned with what’s in front of me rather than what lies behind me. But in the end it’s whatever comes out.
We can only write from memory. Even when we make language do new things, say new things, language is a memorized skill. We leaned the words, the grammar, punctuation, form, all of it. And we only use the parts of language we remembered learning unless we come up with a new version of it but even then, the tools we use for that are in the memory toolbox. As limiting as memory is, clinging only to certain viewpoints acquired at specific points in the mystery of time, it’s an essential toolbox for saying both the familiar and the new. I think of memory as a function of the present, a way of bringing the harvests of the past with us. I think of memory as a diving board into the future. When I think of memory, I’m not sure it thinks of me.
Yes! The real trick is to make those memories come alive in the page. The important question: Why does this memory matter now? Kaylee does an excellent job of braiding together different memories, in the distant and immediate past. She’s only been writing poems for two years—wow!
I work with my hands so all my poems I first composed orally. When I write, I don't write, I just write words down that are in my mouth already.
Do I write from memory? You'd think I'd say yes, perhaps, because whatever touches me - whether it's the hum of the wall from the drill bit in the flat next door, or the snoring of my little sister, or the stony sweetness of a packet of juice, or the oily smoothness of a keyboard - it will all be reflected in my memory and stay there. But the thing is, I don't want to write about renovations, the appearance of someone else's dream, food, or dirt. I, you know, want to praise the lace of light, the glow of blue ribbons and the roundness of convex mirrors - basically, everything that has never touched me. Because I've never seen light speckled through the holey canvas of clouds. I never wore thick blue ribbons tied under my breasts. I have never been painted against a convex mirror. But I write about them, even though they were never in my memory.
My god, I don’t know. I’d say mostly my poems are concerned with what’s in front of me rather than what lies behind me. But in the end it’s whatever comes out.
We can only write from memory. Even when we make language do new things, say new things, language is a memorized skill. We leaned the words, the grammar, punctuation, form, all of it. And we only use the parts of language we remembered learning unless we come up with a new version of it but even then, the tools we use for that are in the memory toolbox. As limiting as memory is, clinging only to certain viewpoints acquired at specific points in the mystery of time, it’s an essential toolbox for saying both the familiar and the new. I think of memory as a function of the present, a way of bringing the harvests of the past with us. I think of memory as a diving board into the future. When I think of memory, I’m not sure it thinks of me.
Yes! The real trick is to make those memories come alive in the page. The important question: Why does this memory matter now? Kaylee does an excellent job of braiding together different memories, in the distant and immediate past. She’s only been writing poems for two years—wow!
Many of my poems are from memory, some from a word I hear or a current prompt.
Poetry acts as an attempt to preserve a memory in words that are cues to emotional recall. It is the most personal form of writing Christine Emmert
this poet has wonderful thoughts
Yes. Trauma and OCD serves as material for my poems, essays, and short stories.