A song leads me to reflection. Heartbreakingly sad, the song quietly sits in the corner of now. I found the lyrical muse after a brief mention in list of music reviews, some time searching, an online order, and a solitary listen. Listening to something personal, too personal, and I wonder. Is one role of art to be tidied up, and presentable for everyone?
Life is not that. Art should not be. True art resides, at first, in places unknown. Is it hard to recognize different viewpoints on truth in a world of patriarchy? Where is the bar that seems high, or is it misplaced, a intangible line to cross in existing within the dominant culture?
A few winters ago, I submitted poems for critique after a workshop. The poems returned and the offer of critique withdrawn. The poetry too personal. Being rejected is par for writers. Refusing to hear is another cut. Writers write what they feel, what they want to understand, saying this is my experience, hear me.
Several summer concerts back, another song touched me, not like today’s shattering, but bittersweet with memories. Regret, loss, a reflecting back in a beautiful little song from a soprano. Recently, I heard a similar song in a film. Reaching deeper than movies usually portray relationships, an understanding through lyrics about the romantic partner was satisfying, not only an adherence of a superhero bandaid, or a red valentine, as the credits roll. But, the note here is that these last two songs were by male composers. They illustrate our society shifting toward change, but not quite reaching the equal truth and nuance of a woman in this society.
The first song, by a female singer/songwriter, captured and held me in her suffocating world of loss and diminished self. Among the lessons learned tracks, that singular glimpse illuminated that to know truth as an artist, one must know other sides. I heard a voice knowing hope and grief. It is the voice of women held back, ignored, banished for centuries. It is art with all the wounds of a woman’s life. Art that reveals, and says, I hear you, too.
The male critic shut me down, compounded pain, doubts, and I stopped writing poetry until there was no other way to process loss. As a woman of this time, obligations of family life carry weight, and writing space is illusive. A life known. Art is life in dark corners, obscure rooms, views not noticed—everywhere, voices waiting to be heard.
I write stories—
and, occasionally,
poetry of my
heart.
Persevere.
Persevere. Persevere.
