Y’all might not know this, but I have another blog, The Black Hole Tango, over on Tumblr, where I publish poetry and little creative bits and snippets, my own and others’ work as well. Mostly my own. It’s just a little free space for sharing my work, which was my big goal in 2010, and yes, it’s taken me until the end of October to start actually fulfilling that goal. Hey, better late, etc.
So, I just posted a poem over there that I wrote some time ago, and when I started to format it for the blog, it hit me:
This is my only poem about pain. Ever.
OK, I found that odd. I’ve been writing poems ever since my chubby hands could hold those big fat stubby pencils they gave us in first grade with the lined paper (although I’ve never shared them–except once on Father’s Day with my ex-husband). And I’m a big believer in using art to transform pain and other so-called negative life experiences.
So why did it take me that long to write a poem about my own chronic pain? And why haven’t I written any others?
I honestly don’t know. I suspect–I fear, that is–that it has something to do with that queasy feeling we all get when we write or think about sharing our physical pain with others. (Or, OK, maybe that’s just me. I shouldn’t assume.) And that’s no good for a poet. Or for anyone alive, really.
But in any event, there it is. It’s called “Legacy,” and you’re welcome to repost it anywhere, just please attribute it properly and if you’d be so kind as to give me a link back to that site (the Black Hole Tango) I’d be grateful, ’cause it’s brand spanking new and a little lonely out there in blogland.
And what I want to know is this: What do you do to process your pain through art? Do you dance it out? Paint the pain? Share your story with me, please!