ARTHOUSE - Poetry as we know it:
Following our passions and why one of mine is breaking up with Instagram
Meat Tenderizer by Maverick L. Malone
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I have never once taken, never will take,
a formal writing class
I’m too loosey goosey for that
too Mad Hatter, too Madam CurieI am not skilled at what I do because I have been taught
I am simply well-seasoned, like a choice cut of meat
its similes dribbling onto the pan
often in all directions just to become fullI write because I have lived
and I mean
beyond this life
I’ve been marinating a whileI think anyone appearing naturally “talented” or “gifted”
has just been running around elsewhere in time
dabbling with whatever it is
we are drawn to our passions for a reasonI think the child prodigy
very well could have been Schumann in a former life
if not so high caliber, then perhaps
in a previous she was a beloved music teacher
and the life before that, a thoroughbred in captivity
forced to practice the harpsichord in the drawing room
as part of an arduous curriculum to mold her
into a well-to-do member of polite society
before she was married off against her will
so when she wanted to scream
she wailed into the keysand maybe the life before that she
was a hulking he, sourcing ivory and wood
to construct the beautiful singing beast that would
carry him through future incarnations
teach him what it means to come from tree
remind him what it means to be
alivebody as vessel, art as vehicle
two very different things when you consider
one contains and the other moves
the necessity of creating, expressing,
the very act of making
exposes where it is we’ve beenthe kitchen timer goes off
dinner is served:a song is never played; it is experienced
great art is not made; it is lived
a poem is not written;
somewhere, it has always existed
I wrote this poem in December and never shared it on my Instagram, which has been the number one place where 99% of my stuff has been shared; that is, up until I started my podcast Ink Speak last spring and soon after discovered Substack in an AH-HA! hallelujah moment of finding another landing place for long-form words. There are many, many pieces I haven’t shared on Instagram simply because I write so much.
It would be difficult to share everything that I’ve written on that platform because it’s just not the write vehicle for that.
I always write lengthy captions for my poems in an effort to elaborate on the story behind it and break it down for those that find poetry difficult to understand.
This morning as I was putting together yet another lengthy post, I had a thought: “No one really reads on Instagram. Why don’t we move the poetry breakdown to Substack? Why don’t we revamp what my Instagram will become?”
And so, here I am and will continue to be, sharing majority of the written work, backstories and thoughts here rather than trying to water it down to a limited number of characters (HA! As if any of my numerous characters could be limited. Little metaphor for you there.)
Instead of posting a daily poem on my Instagram, I will share them here in weekly (or perhaps 2x week) emails I am dubbing “ARTHOUSE.” This will also allow me to do this somewhat regularly and more consistently because if you have followed me on Instagram for some time now, you know for certain that there is never any shortage of new content. Instagram will remain but will inevitably change, becoming more of the visual platform it was meant to be; a place where I can share my other loves: photography, travel, and my life.
Regarding this poem, I remember thinking about naturally gifted people, especially children, one day at work and how some seem to simply pop out of the womb as tiny Mozarts or Van Goghs. Then I began exploring how that could be connected to what I believe, which is reincarnation; how we’re all cycling back and forth through lives & what we learn is carried forward.
Some things will always call us home.
I think we all have this thing within us, or maybe it is a multitude of things – this natural inclination drawing us towards a certain something. Maybe that something is the literary arts or books in general. Maybe it’s singing, dancing or cooking. Maybe it’s traveling. Maybe it’s working with animals or volunteering. Or maybe it’s something completely out there. Maybe your thing is collecting twigs and sticks and erecting a giant monument in your backyard, paying homage to the fairies you so wholeheartedly believe in (god bless you, you beautiful pixie-worshippers).
Whatever it is – how brilliantly bizarre or completely conventional it may be – it is yours, and the world needs your magic.
That’s what today’s poem is about – why are we magnetized to the things we are? Why do some things seem to come so naturally? Why is this four-year-old girl suddenly writing an entire concerto in the span of 10 minutes? Why do I write so passionately and prolifically but not paint? Why do you paint so skillfully and intensely but not write?
I believe I am a writer in this life because I purposefully chose to be before I came but I feel that I chose it for THIS particular incarnation because I have lived many others already diligently honing that craft.
While I don’t think I was ever Brontë, Dickens or Poe, I do believe I have been many things related to writing and knowledge: a Greek philosopher; a school teacher; a poet many times over (spent lamenting over some unrequited love, no doubt). I also believe I’ve been a witch, a war pilot, and have also spent many lives living a simple and hard-working kind of life, someone who was just trying to experience life from all sides.
But what I’m getting at with this piece is our WHY. Why are you magnetized to piano or baseball or the medical field? Why do you feel so strongly about the dreams you have within you?
I believe it’s soul-resonance, pieces of past lives we carry forward, and these gifts and talents we have, things that come naturally could very well be because they were something deeply profound and meaningful to us in a past life. I also think some of those things didn’t get to be as fully experienced as our souls desired, and so we choose X again for our next incarnation as a way to hit the reset button on our unfinished business.
And maybe you believe that, too. Or maybe you don’t.
One thing is for sure: it makes you think. Somewhere in your being, somewhere in your expansive history of histories, your X, your WHY, gives meaning to your particular existence.
Class dismissed.