on brevity, bravery & bards

what I’ve learned from poets and how to apply these to my relationships

I give poets a round of applause for doing what I can’t: brevity. We have a lot to learn from poets. I’m starting to realise they make deft work of tiny quirks and scribble down concrete details before fashioning it all into a piece. It’s challenging to pants a poem because every word counts. I never explored poetry in a formal setting until this summer. As an undergrad English minor, I wrote and devoured fiction— mostly short stories. In my introductory Creative Writing class, we glossed over poetry and turned in two poems. The rest of the assignments were fiction-based.

That was over a decade ago, and now I’m embarking on more classes to play and experiment, to generate more writing, to make art and fuck around. I hate that capitalism forces people like me to desire immediate commodification and monetisation of our hobbies and passions. As I find myself honing my craft and playing with poetry, I struggle with perfection and being good enough. By whose measure? And why am I obsessing over not being good enough to achieve anything with my writing? Why is there such an immense pressure to rush to perfection when it is something I can never achieve?

🌸 🌸 🌸

An ex-partner of mine, the freestyle rapper and philosopher, often praised me for sounding like poetry. I wasn’t sure how to take it then, and by the end of our relationship I found myself recording a verse I wrote to a beat for them as a way to play and wrestle with difficult feelings that led to our demise. I dropped the verse on their trip upstate to spend a week with a new beau they had only known for two weeks. We had already been having issues— for months, with a couples therapist introduction call happening that week, after my repeated nudges and pleas. We were supposed to take the call together in person when they headed back to the city on Friday, and then have one of my friends over for dinner so they could meet. The track was carefully recorded in my bedroom (despite my lack of equipment) to a YouTube beat I found while searching “[redacted artist] type beat.”

On the subway ride late Friday evening, after my friend left my home for dinner, I dropped the track. My then-partner never made it to the city in time to take our phone call, instead, calling me a couple days prior, begging for understanding that they planned this but “couldn’t make it because [redacted] had to work from home and we were going to head back together.” It was received as a sweet gift after our argument on the phone, and they laughed in surprise as they exclaimed how it was the nicest thing a partner had ever done for them.

When they asked me, “What inspired you to write this diss track?” My inner child screamed for clarity and truth, but I was too afraid of what would happen if they didn’t like what they heard. So instead, I fudged my way to a half-truth.

“It was a fart and art. I had to get through writer’s block and dropping a verse was a fun way to pull through and deal with my feelings.”

I wish I had been brave enough to be honest instead.

To myself and to them.

🌸 🌸 🌸

I might be in the camp that believes suffering for art is a necessity. But perhaps that’s because some of my best work comes from passion and emotions. I am brave enough to speak truth to power, at least on a macro level. It’s easy to criticise a structure when it’s inherently flawed and based in white supremacy, but it’s not as easy to tell a loved one that their actions don’t make sense and how they can be so careless. We both suffered in the end. Not for our art, but for our love. To keep it alive.

This is where I can learn from poets in their brevity. Love, in and of itself, can never be enough to sustain a relationship. The relationship my ex and I shared will remain unique and wholly ours, but that doesn’t mean it as healthy. There are moments I know I write fiction when I try to take baby steps, meandering and waiting for something to change. A poet might have chosen an enjambment instead of endless prose. Or a line break. Or just ended the poem as a fragment. (If Sappho can do it; why can’t I?)

Forever a chapter in my personal history of incompatibility, the bravest thing I did was to bring it to a compassionate end. I know I didn’t handle myself well, but I am aware and made it known that I wasn’t perfect either. I wasn’t fully upfront about my desires because I was contending with a partner who was actively in recovery. I watched them fall deeply in love with someone else before it was too late. Most polyamorous people feel compersion, but with the already shaky ground we were on, I struggled to find my footing with our relationship and I made the healthy decision to leave. I hate that I dislike someone and anyone adjacent to that person because of the ways our then-shared partner mismanaged their time and deep misunderstanding of new relationship energy and what stability looked like. By all means, my disorganized attachment style and relational trauma ✨got the best of me✨ but I am aware and I did my best.

We both did (at least I’d like to believe.)

🌸 🌸 🌸

I’ve come to a place of peace when it comes to writing about this ex-partner. I need to because they taught me so much. (Against my will!!! I didn’t want another lesson. 🥹 Kidding though, I was a consenting adult in love for every minute of it.) And while I’ve been as careful as I can to keep them anonymous, it’s not that hard to figure out. I am aware that writing this and being vulnerable comes at a cost. And that might be a future where my ex and I are on good terms again, because exposing this much about our relationship is probably too much for them.

But to be honest, I’m fine with that.

It’s braver to be honest and truthful to help others (and speak out!) and hold each other accountable. I did not know how to self-regulate during the demise, and that was a clear sign that I needed to go.

Learning how to write poetry is teaching me how to be bolder about my life (word) choices, move slowly and intentionally to notice all the little details, and to discern what works and what doesn’t. To have the awareness to know when something needs to end. Brevity is okay, especially in relationships. It’s not a sign of failure, but of progress.

I just need to keep reminding myself that the process isn’t always so concise and cut / dry… but at least the art 🖼️ created from it can be 🥹

🌸 🌸 🌸

If you put up with this essay, you deserve a reward. I’m sending this out at 1 AM and it’s sad boi hours! 🥹 Thanks for putting up with my little newsletter. I love u all friends xoxoxo