What I’ve been thinking..my inability to promote me, performing poetry and bruises.. What ifs?
Poetry and reflections..
I performed at a poetry event recently and, in the build up, was asked to post on social media. As you, naturally, would be. Not used to celebrating my creativity, or having it celebrated by others in my real-life, this creates all sorts of awkward feelings and interactions for me! I keep my poetry (and have kept huge parts of my life), private. Wrapped up in blankets of (perceived) safety and security. Close friends, who aren’t writers, appreciate that poetry is a passion. They’re supportive and want to be there. Celebrating my inner-voice feels alien. I hadn’t felt seen or understood for so long and new, welcoming, and more emotionally effusive environments, still feel.. Well, new! Emotions weren’t really discussed when I was younger and being a ‘sensitive’ child, there was a depth of connection and acceptance, that I craved. As a talker, an over-thinker (and, probably, quite a tricky truth-teller for some) I was a product of past generations. I had a, longing, itch. A deep and meaningful was what I desired. Probably way too often, while others were living their lives! Maybe they related on that level. It felt as though they didn’t, but I wondered if they related too much.. The demand of conformity Around others that weren’t emotionally intuitive, I ‘should be’ a rule follower. No trouble. Obedient. I had a thought on everything! I’m neurodivergent (undiagnosed as a child) and, as a feeling human, felt that my chaotic brain was deemed inconvenient. I spent so long feeling trapped. Shaming myself - and being shamed. Calm down! Expressions of greater meaning, joy and exuberance around creative pursuits, (and being analytical around deeper meanings to art and literature) weren’t well regarded, shall we say. As an ADHDer, I perceived that I was a little ‘Too much’ and was viewed as ‘dramatic’. Reading too much into things. I didn’t know how to be ‘less’, but did try to suffocate myself into an, unsuccessful, submission.
What was ‘wrong’ with me?
I blamed myself.
People in my real-life don’t tend to read my writing, as they speak to me. I’m not really asked about the content of my poetry. I also can be a bubbly person and, when in past careers, I’ve pushed myself forward, or have tried to ‘promote’ myself, it was done in a way that was deemed ‘cringe’. I can often feel quite ‘wired’. It can take a night’s sleep, or a day, for my shoulders to sink back down. Release.
I feel as though self-promotion would be ‘bigging myself up’. That I would seem arrogant. It’s natural to tell those that you want to about performances, achievements and about what means the world to you. Not saying what you are actually saying.. Giving encoded messages can also bewilder (me). Saying one thing to somebody in a business environment, that people read and understand to have a different meaning. Or greater levels to it. I require clarification and wonder if I misunderstood.
At the poetry event, I spoke about the (potential) value of a bruise. It relates to a thinking-out-loud poem that I’d written a while before. A bruise directs you to what hurts. It changes colour, there might be flecks around it and it can feel as though it’s burrowed deep under your skin.. That it presents differently on the surface.
What is the value in a bruise?
It tells you what’s sore
and shows others
Puts what hurts on display and changes colour as it heals
What is the value in a bruise?
A wound, something that takes you outside
Shames, banishes and excludes
Feeling, the skin tender
Coming out of the other side
Moving through
Noticing the glint in other’s eyes
The sadness, the rage, the feeling
When they feel the rising
and spiralling into that loop
The rolling evolution, without completion
When, they get it too
Self-promotion. Wouldn’t want to seem self-absorbed’
(I am me. OK for me to be absorbed - and put myself ‘out there’)
Why should I downsize me?
If someone isn’t interested in what I have to say.. they don’t have to read or listen!
There’s so much sarcasm here..
How can we possibly celebrate ourselves. Or even contemplate that?!
Not my people..
Would a man be referred to as ‘big-headed’?
Why do women have to present as humble?
A friend inspired me to write about the everyday:
Mundanity
The mud on the shoes Not crossing under a black ladder Or, .. Is that the right one? Pigeon spray lands on your curls - that don’t, can’t, won’t, bounce Bringing about extreme profanity Seeing the screech, the excrement that is their painting Beauty in the abstract and severe Every depth of darkened, wilted traumatised, Humanity You take a breath It fills up the cup and the banality There is wonder in the everyday The power of balance and rolling life forces, numbness, presentation.. Treasured, pure embodiment Nourishing forevers With insistence and without finality Words roll off the tongue into your mouth I repeat mine Grows within me Regeneration, becomes reality
@taratalksthoughts on insta
tarastar.substack.com
tarastarpoetry.com
Changing ‘What ifs’ to ‘Even ifs’
I saw this online and I wish I could remember where..
Changing anxious ‘What if?’ to ‘Even if..?’
What’s the worst that could happen?
(Actually, don’t answer that)
The therapist or mental health organisation online meant that worrying and anxiety won’t change the outcome, as hard as that is. Myself and a friend regularly say this, even though we both struggle.
This one I wrote about a year ago with themes of exploring sexuality, fear of intimacy and trauma
The truest version
From nothing To something Seems like such a gap A lurch and lift From down in the valleys A hospitality, being a home That can flow And not run from A to B A presence, within us Found, in wanting And leading to being present Not a hand held, dragged into Alive, living Awoken, and not taken Coerced into only their garden’s paths The ones they created Now flying away and becoming Coming from a place of honesty I am inside me Self-trust could lead to wanting To attraction Not, dragging my insides and calling it lust I didn’t need to write all the moments The ones that made me rise, numb Into estuaries and tidal currents Or too much And, nothing at all The winds force field Was how they told me it was pre-destined Nodding, all too readily Trying to make it a moment Not wanting greedily Like there was nothing at all Realisations and shut off moments Moving now, into forty three The tragedy of a me unexplored Cos they named the ship And fashioned her Before I knew it Out to sea (not being seen) No rolling down the valleys No water falling That cannot stop Convinced in the body’s protection That it was all I wanted Took her out the running Until one day who I am got closer to being held aloft The feeling of tears welling writing this And knowing I wrote words that are true The peaks that they told us had meaning Weren’t me rising And truths growing inside That were more heart Less function The metaphorical landscape And the years, for me, over which it grew Then, settlements and Hope and Love Terrains of safety bringing the mountains forth Openness Chats in the sands Growth Shades of mauve Wishing, hoping A dream come true You stated what is the one thing This was the one thing I couldn’t say Wondering what I always knew
Reborn
Light that is a prism of sorrow and bright Bright that is part of a rhythm Pain and aching solitude Screaming insides Quiet solitudes that fracture as you rise There is survival and honouring what your heart lived and all the lives Jumping and dancing for the sparkle, the crimson cheeks Cringe, celebrated Part of your bright Illuminated, captured Making all the ages of you forgivable, cherish able ‘Right’
in disarray, waking up,
illusions
Image credit: Canva
Waking up / Bed head / hair /
hair decorating my mind
Bed head / rising head / head Lets not do whatever we are ‘supposed’ to We are the loves of our lives Chaotic, swirly and amongst the blankets In the weeds and the roots The sunshine, the embodiment The moments The growth, the curl up and every fall
A messy, beautiful, life
You lie
Rejection sensitive dysphoria -
ADHD and saying sorry
Working closely with a man - ADHD and trauma, past experiences of misogyny,