Poetry has meant many things to me over the years. Our relationship began in a space of misunderstanding: I did not understand what it could be or the secret meanings hidden between periods, and, I thought, poetry could not possibly understand me. Then our relationship bloomed into an experimental phase as I began to wonder if there was something I’d missed in my first glance. What I found was a space that could hold my thoughts in any way I needed, a space that met me where I was and accepted me in any form or feeling. A space so patient and mine, a space that became what I didn’t have and what I longed for.
But this spring, I was asked to look at poetry in a new way. To see how a space that became synonymous with my soul– an utterly personal space– could become public and spark change in the world around me. A world I so desperately wanted to aid but I didn’t know how. In the classroom, I watched history unfold before me and I saw all the ways poetry could bend, move, and weave lives together. I saw it give name to the nameless. I saw a lonely thought become a wily idea that spread like dandelion seeds in the summer forming into more tangible action. I saw the 20th century unfurl before my wide eyes and I couldn’t help but wonder where I could fit into all of this. Surely, if they could do it, why couldn’t I?
The problem was that I was staring at a finished product and I never wondered at the process. I never looked deeper than the success of it all– never stared at the brave hearts who were long destroyed and depleted before they became household names.
In the hope of it all, I decided to make a website and organize a poetry night. The poetry night was for my home and the website for the ones beyond, but the goal was always the same: to give a platform to every voice who wanted to matter just like me. What I didn’t know yet was the weight of the request I asked of strangers. I was asking people to share what they made in the dark, to share the deepest part of their souls in hope that others will see it and something would happen. What I didn’t know yet was that people were not ready, they did not have the same need– the same drive– to add something to the world around them in hopes that something would change. Because in all likelihood nothing would change, and they would stand there naked for people to gawk, maybe laugh, and then move on. I asked strangers for so much for so little in return– and I knew the weight because I had carried it myself– but my heart still broke after every “no.” And I wondered why I was trying at all.
In the hope of it all, I walked into this experience expecting that I was fulfilling a deep need in the marketplace of ideas. I wanted this project so badly– not for simple success but to prove something deeper inside me. To prove I was not alone, that my voice mattered somehow. It was my fault in assuming others felt the same. I ran into more walls than doors. I realized quickly that change isn’t an immediate event. And there are so many forms and higher-ups and office managers that need to sign on a dotted line. To get the go-ahead from anyone is to leave twenty voicemails, wait on hold during breakfast, to move from building to building to get told to come back next time with revisions or that the boss isn’t in today. To hope for change is to work for thirty days in preparation for one day of success or for none at all. To hope for change is to feel that your hope is worthless but unbeknownst to you your dandelion seeds are floating around and they’re landing as you think you should just stop. To hope for change is to feel like you're wasting your time until you begin to see those little suns sprout from the path you forged. To hope for change is to keep moving forward in the hope that something could happen.
On the day of the poetry night, I was a mix of fear and excitement. My mind entertained every scenario of what could go wrong, unwilling to accept that I had done everything I could and now it was time to sit and wait. I had worked hard– way too hard. And they say hard work pays off, but that saying has been proven wrong before in the lifespan of this idea. I held my breath waiting for this poetry night idea to blow up in my face. I rebuked myself for hoping that it could be something more than a naive girl's attempt at an idea worth something. I sat and I waited.
The event started at seven. When six-thirty came, the people walked in slowly and then they didn’t stop. It was a stream of lives, a stream of yellow dandelions who wouldn’t have been there without that pesky thought of mine that dared to hope. Before I knew it, I was looking for more chairs and more space to fit all the life into that Starbucks cafe. I was bouncing between conversations, trying to meet all the friends that had guided me along the way, who had believed I could do what I thought I couldn’t, and who were rays of sun in the long weeks of gray.
As I sat in the crowd watching others share their souls through poetry, I was flooded by a joy and peace that could only be described as holy. I cried in the middle of it all, overcome by the amount of love in the room. Overcome by the souls who loved me but also loved the world as much as I did– daring to ask for change in their poetry. The hour felt surreal: sharing poetry as the sun dipped behind a microphone, golden light showering a golden moment.
After the poems ended, I told others I was on a cloud. I did it. I had done something. I created something larger than myself through dedication, resilience, and a dream I dared to follow. This was a highlight. A reprieve from the gray that I will hold on to, but it is not the end. There are no end credits to this story. No period to place at the end of this day. It is an ellipsis, a continuation and a possibility that more could be done.
When I look back at this experience, I wonder what I can do next. The truth is that this experience was hard. And I am still unsure how I fit into the world or the idea that poetry can be a vessel for change. I am not sure if my website is worth keeping or if I’ve made any worthwhile progress in my community. But what I am certain of is that for one hour I gave thirteen people a public space to let their voices be heard. And those thirteen voices floated through the wind and landed on over fifty pairs of ears. Those fifty will now move into the world with those ideas planted and who knows what will happen next.
And that was worth it all.
All because I dared to dream of change; a girl lost in the hope of it all.
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