deepundergroundpoetry.com
Not so positivelydark
Hello, DU.
I know, I haven't been on a lot, though I promised that I'd be back more often, writing more, posting more. I even put it in the "goals of the year" of my bullet journal. Well, with how things are going, I think it'd be more approppriate to call it my bullshit journal. I guess, if you don't care about my bs, it's best that you stop reading now.
I found Deep Underground Poetry when I was 16, as I've mentioned, I think, a million times before. A wee girl, wide-eyed to the strange new world before her. Now, I'm a 21-year-old woman. Jaded, consuming memes and dark humor daily. Still quite lost, still quite lonely.
A few years ago, what I think of as the height of my DU life - my poetry life - happened. It was poem after poem. Late nights consumed by the muse, chills as I let the music and feeling and sensations take me where they may, and I was so drunk in the words and the magic that this alternate life, world, and persona was giving me. I was like a new woman born, this wee girl transitioning in the conviction that she is a woman and everything that a woman is and a woman could be...and beyond. A poet, honest-to-goodness.
And of course, this did not happen without help. This change, this energy, this magic and music was made with other poets, friends, especially a few special ones. If you have been reading my work for a while, you already have an idea on who they are.
This world we'd created during that time...it truly consumed me, in ways I'd only dreamed of before. In ways I'd only read about before. It was Anais and Henry; Egon Schiele and Wally Neuzil; Jo and Edward Hopper; Bogie and Bacall; it was the smoke and rain, and danger and passion and heartbreak that'll never leave noir. The blues played on in our dreary hotels, while real life - it went on. And thepositivelydark...she had to move forward.
I still remember it: the haze of the high from the chemistry coursing through our words, the electric current in an Edward Hopper painting that had no doors - where we can never escape. Where we barely touch. I remember the frantic lunacy of decoding letters from a lover, clandestine and - frankly - not quite legal, the rush when you read and remember, "This is my mark. I put it there." I was seventeen and dancing queen spinning toward this mirage of gunshots and love bites and paint spills. It was also so easy to trip and crash with the "I wonder if wes," "I wonder if Is," "what ifs," and to sail away with the tears, the lonely notes and nostalgia. And then that's just it, the point when I read each new poem, when I look in the new woman in the mirror, I remember, "This is his mark. He put it there."
And I am grateful for it all. That connection and friendship helped in transforming me. It helped in transforming my writing. In a way I became Galatea. But this Galatea eventually needed to go to university, meet new friends, build a life in real life.
This Jeanne D'Arc was indeed a witchy sinner, with desires they say a virgin cannot comprehend(but she conjured). This Selene was starry-eyed, but she was not blind. She knew when her light was not as wanted.
The writing became farther and farther from the familiarity of old rain-damp streets and lampposts. It became realer and realer until one day...thepositivelydark doesn't feel as real anymore.
So here I am. Trying to figure things out. After almost 6 years of being on DUP, I seriously considered changing my username. Sometimes, I don't feel like I'm that 16-year-old girl anymore, thepositivelydark. I have this…desire. To write while being no one’s, while being completely and utterly myself or whoever I wanted to be. Not merely the muse. But then, I don't want to lose her and the memories, too. So here I am. Like the phoenix I always write about, la fille en feu, here I am trying to rise again.
Love and light always,
tpd
I know, I haven't been on a lot, though I promised that I'd be back more often, writing more, posting more. I even put it in the "goals of the year" of my bullet journal. Well, with how things are going, I think it'd be more approppriate to call it my bullshit journal. I guess, if you don't care about my bs, it's best that you stop reading now.
I found Deep Underground Poetry when I was 16, as I've mentioned, I think, a million times before. A wee girl, wide-eyed to the strange new world before her. Now, I'm a 21-year-old woman. Jaded, consuming memes and dark humor daily. Still quite lost, still quite lonely.
A few years ago, what I think of as the height of my DU life - my poetry life - happened. It was poem after poem. Late nights consumed by the muse, chills as I let the music and feeling and sensations take me where they may, and I was so drunk in the words and the magic that this alternate life, world, and persona was giving me. I was like a new woman born, this wee girl transitioning in the conviction that she is a woman and everything that a woman is and a woman could be...and beyond. A poet, honest-to-goodness.
And of course, this did not happen without help. This change, this energy, this magic and music was made with other poets, friends, especially a few special ones. If you have been reading my work for a while, you already have an idea on who they are.
This world we'd created during that time...it truly consumed me, in ways I'd only dreamed of before. In ways I'd only read about before. It was Anais and Henry; Egon Schiele and Wally Neuzil; Jo and Edward Hopper; Bogie and Bacall; it was the smoke and rain, and danger and passion and heartbreak that'll never leave noir. The blues played on in our dreary hotels, while real life - it went on. And thepositivelydark...she had to move forward.
I still remember it: the haze of the high from the chemistry coursing through our words, the electric current in an Edward Hopper painting that had no doors - where we can never escape. Where we barely touch. I remember the frantic lunacy of decoding letters from a lover, clandestine and - frankly - not quite legal, the rush when you read and remember, "This is my mark. I put it there." I was seventeen and dancing queen spinning toward this mirage of gunshots and love bites and paint spills. It was also so easy to trip and crash with the "I wonder if wes," "I wonder if Is," "what ifs," and to sail away with the tears, the lonely notes and nostalgia. And then that's just it, the point when I read each new poem, when I look in the new woman in the mirror, I remember, "This is his mark. He put it there."
And I am grateful for it all. That connection and friendship helped in transforming me. It helped in transforming my writing. In a way I became Galatea. But this Galatea eventually needed to go to university, meet new friends, build a life in real life.
This Jeanne D'Arc was indeed a witchy sinner, with desires they say a virgin cannot comprehend(but she conjured). This Selene was starry-eyed, but she was not blind. She knew when her light was not as wanted.
The writing became farther and farther from the familiarity of old rain-damp streets and lampposts. It became realer and realer until one day...thepositivelydark doesn't feel as real anymore.
So here I am. Trying to figure things out. After almost 6 years of being on DUP, I seriously considered changing my username. Sometimes, I don't feel like I'm that 16-year-old girl anymore, thepositivelydark. I have this…desire. To write while being no one’s, while being completely and utterly myself or whoever I wanted to be. Not merely the muse. But then, I don't want to lose her and the memories, too. So here I am. Like the phoenix I always write about, la fille en feu, here I am trying to rise again.
Love and light always,
tpd
Published 9th Mar 2019
Author's Note
Art: Woman in the Sun (Jo Hopper), 1961 by Edward Hopper.
This has been barely looked over, not quite edited, left raw and real. Forgive me for fading, DU.
(I just realized that I'm posting this on my 2019th day as a DU poet. Funny.)
This has been barely looked over, not quite edited, left raw and real. Forgive me for fading, DU.
(I just realized that I'm posting this on my 2019th day as a DU poet. Funny.)
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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The author encourages honest critique.
9th Mar 2019 4:21am
i have read any till this day
find it interesting read on how you wanted to quite that would be wrong stay and write in time you find all your dreams
find it interesting read on how you wanted to quite that would be wrong stay and write in time you find all your dreams
Anonymous
11th Mar 2019 2:14pm
Hi Coleen,
Listen, my friend, I've known you for quite a while(since I intruded on your Poet of the Week), and you're honestly one of the nicest, most interesting, kindest people I've ever met. You take your time, and get yourself straight, and get back here. You're writing is truly remarkable, and intelligent, and we need you here. Even your contemplative letter here is beautifully written.
Be strong, and know that you're incredibly special, and get back here!
Love,
Matthew.
Listen, my friend, I've known you for quite a while(since I intruded on your Poet of the Week), and you're honestly one of the nicest, most interesting, kindest people I've ever met. You take your time, and get yourself straight, and get back here. You're writing is truly remarkable, and intelligent, and we need you here. Even your contemplative letter here is beautifully written.
Be strong, and know that you're incredibly special, and get back here!
Love,
Matthew.
