Bottled Message

Two versions exist of a poem I once wrote. One, when I was sixteen. And the other when I was eighteen.

The first:

 

the fireflies are sleeping

the moon is joyful yet

the weeping willows weeping

these feelings that I’ve kept

 

all bottled up and ready

to be set out to sea

they’ll crash upon the jetty

and they’ll call you to me

 

you’ll awaken from your slumber

and walk down to the shore

sleepy feet be not encumbered 

by that midnight ocean roar

 

for when we have crossed ways

i’ll wrap you up real tight

i’ll whisper to the gentle waves

call to the starless night 

 

we’ll gaze into the depthless blue 

splay fingers to the breeze

and in the sand I’ll write ‘I miss you’

for those bright green eyes to see

 

And now, the second:

 

the sleeping bugs and crescent moon

call sea to shore and me to you 

with bated breath, I call your name

and sit alone- I sit alone

 

into the breeze I cry, unheard

six letters scorned by acrid words 

by lust and greed 

by selfish need

i call your name 

into the sea 

i call your name,

call you to me

 

and in my mind, we have crossed ways 

sit leg to leg, turned to the waves 

we gaze into the green blue grey 

and as I reach, you pull away

you rise and walk into the sea

i call your name, call you to me  

with tear stained hand I write- I write

 

‘I vow upon this sacred night 

that I have loved with love so white’ 

and as these words

escape my mind

the mad black see 

becomes inclined 

to sweep across the grainy sand

and wipe my words into the bend 

between pale sky and hazy sea

and snaps me from my reverie.

 

I maintain that poetry should be left unedited- and if it is, the original piece should be retained somewhere. Poetry is the greatest time capsule of all. I remember how I felt when I was sixteen, writing that poem, sick with love and idealism. I remember being eighteen as well, cynical and scorned and imbued with new perspective. And although I went back and rewrote the poem, I wanted to keep the original. I enjoyed its optimistic simplicity. Going back now, at twenty years old, I can write yet another completely different version. Life is continuous growth. And for a writer- or any person really- growth means shift in perspective, seeing retrospectively, changing long held opinions. Life is continuous and continuity is growth. So don’t edit your poetry. Leave it be. The words you used, the emotions you felt, your structure and cadence were all reflective of how you were feeling in those moments in which you scribbled it down or furiously typed it up- tear stained eyes, shaking hand and all. Journals are like photo albums: the pictures can be retaken later but they can never be replicated exactly as they were. So be kind to yourself, and honor the feelings the poetry of your past was trying to convey.

Signing off,

Sophie S.