Most Meaningful
By: Vainavi Gambhir
“Never trust me.
I might tell a lie,
I might make you cry.
I’m kinda’ like a bully,
bad luck you trust me fully.”
The problem was: I wasn’t the bully. Poetry was the real bully. It troubled me because I didn’t know how to get a poem to sound meaningful. Poetry was quite different than any other form of writing. There was literally no rule to it, yet there were too many. Embedded in every sentence had to be some important message; every word had to be stuffed with “meat” and impact.
I remember the time when I was so determined to actually finish writing a poem of some sort. My third-grade self recalled what my teacher had told me about writing poetry.
“Think about something that impacts the world, and write about that to make the poem powerful.”
These were pretty powerful topics.
Big. Impactful. Important.
I decided to go for ocean pollution. I mean, who wouldn’t fall for choking animals tied in nets with plastic down their throats? I worked on getting some good imagery and emotion into the poem. In time, I’d even achieved adding as many impactful words as my nine-year-old brain could think of, with (of course) a seemingly clear and meaningful message.
“ …The nets attack,
as the poison spreads.
Creating a blanket
of trash… “
But was this poem meaningful enough to me?
I realized how many authors and children had already written about issues in the world. I narrowed my eyebrows and blinked at my work: the words that were someone else’s, the problem known to everyone. I was confused. Wasn’t this what would make my poem meaningful? Yet it wasn’t working, and so I crumpled the black words into a ball to be shoved away. I gazed outside the window at the golden streaks in the sea as the wet sun seeped through the sticky, evening clouds. I observed the people scurrying to coffee shops and malls, tranced by their phones. I noticed the sky blend from amber, to crimson, to pink. I then turned to the crumpled ball of poetry.
And I smiled.
As I grasped my pencil for the second time, I suddenly felt the rough wood around the metallic lead. I began to write. Not about all the issues in the world, the major events, tragic losses, or anything big. I wrote about the light bulb at my bedside table, flickering like the sun peeking behind a scribble of mountains. I wrote about that sea outside my window, the waves spreading like a melting cube of ice. I wrote about that one moment when I was at the beach, tasting the sweet breeze and feeling the sandy granules between my toes. It was the first time in so long that I had actually lived the moment I was in. I’d felt so powerful then. But I felt the same way now too. My pencil glided across those familiar lines in my notebook like ice.
“Think about something that impacts the world, and write about that to make the poem powerful.”
I understood how those small moments are the greatest impact on every single person; everyone is made of those moments, whether cherished or not. Likewise, each word for a moment represents a tiny puzzle piece of who I am, what my poem of life is.
And ever since I held that rough pencil between my fingers again, I realized that every moment was a precious topic to write about in itself. Writing about my surroundings helped me open my eyes and mind to recognize the hidden poetry every little thing offered. I felt like I had grown to appreciate the most trivial acts in my surroundings.
I began to write poems about nothing. It was astonishing how much of nothing there was to write about.
And through my life, “stuffing” each moment like a meaningful word is what would make my poem of life truly reflective and complete. Just like a good poem.
Small. Precise. Precious.
I glanced back at the poetry I’d formed in my notebook…
“...feet sunk in the rich earth
The sunset dancing above my hair,
cherishing the moment for all its worth,
As I breathe today’s fresh air.”
… and I signed my name below.
