Imperfect poems
I am a person who is eager for answers. I am uncomfortable
with ambiguity. I do not like feeling helpless. Yet it seems the world is full
of questions, grey areas, and things outside my control. It is writing that
helps me reconcile the world’s almost ineffable complexities and my craving for
certitude.
Yet ironically, the enterprise of writing a poem is
punctuated with uncertainty. Does this
poem say what I mean? Did I encapsulate that moment, that energy, that feeling
properly? In other words: does this
poem capture my humanity?
Poems are objects, that is to say, they can be shared with
a friend or stored in a book. But poems are also actors. Poems make us see one another; they help us feel the
pain, the love, the suffering, the kindness of another. I repeat, somewhat
ironically, in one of my pieces, “poems are not about politics; poems are about
people.” When poems act, they allow
us to empathize, to understand, and even perhaps, to heal. That is why I insist
that poems are in service of both our intimate interiority and our shared
experiences.
But how do we write such potent poems?
When I get confused or scared, I find solace in writing a
poem. For me, a poem begins with something I know to be true. It can be an
experience of fear, of love, of despair, of wonder. I get lost when I start
writing about what “should” or “could” be instead of what is, and more
specifically, what the world is like for me. For example, sometimes I start
with the experience of a sound, like in a recent poem of mine: “my heeled boots
hit the sidewalk— the metronome of our silences.”
I think of all the specific instances that make a moment
special or magical or intense for me. I want my poems to feel grounded and
rooted in something material. So I write: “I take it all in:/ the colourful
Koreatown murals/ the demolished department store.” Then I like to juxtapose
with a sentiment others might relate to: “I listen to your smile/ as you listen
to me talk / about school / and friends/ and death.”
Many of my poems start in my mind – usually as a string of
words– either that I said or heard. If I can, I write it down as quickly as
possible because I will inevitably forget. I prefer to begin writing my poems
in a notebook, not just for the aesthetics, but because I think we self-censor
less that way. With a keyboard, it is easy to backtrack and to dismiss our own
words. When I write with a pen and paper, I viscerally feel the writing
experience and it supports my process more steadily. The free flow is sometimes
jarring and I think: “wow am I really feeling that way?” I find it a useful
exercise in introspection and authenticity.
I think poems begin as kernels of truth about my existence,
but I often polish, curate, and even embellish them. That urge to modify our
feelings and experiences in their representations is equally as human. We are
not always proud of what we feel and how we experience. I think our inclination
to hide or sanitize that reveals something about who we are as well.
I encourage everyone to write, especially in moments of
anxiety or bewilderment. I have to constantly remind myself to write too. I
have to remind myself that poems are not meant to be perfect and that is
precisely why they are important.
Barâa Arar is a
Toronto-based writer, editor, and community organizer. She holds a Bachelor of
Humanities from Carleton University and is currently a master’s candidate at
the University of Toronto, focusing her research on photography, gender, and
colonial resistance. Her poetry and personal essays have appeared in Room Magazine, This Magazine, Canthius,
among other publications. Barâa is the recipient of the Carleton Provost
Scholar Award for community engagement and immersive research.
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