poetic honesty

I have this problem.  It's hard for me to tell people what my poems mean.  Someone asks me what the poem means and I freeze.  I think, "It says what it means.  It's all there."  

I quickly realize that I have written a poem... and poems are usually a little unintelligble if they didn't spring from your own mind.

Once I see, then I begin to hedge and hem.  "This poem is not really about me, it's a character... a figment of my dark imagination."  This is a lie that I have told one too many times.

So to all of you who have been befuddled by my lines, and more confused by my explanation of them, here is a better explanation for one of my poems that I have been reluctant to own until I admitted that it was, indeed, my child at our show on Saturday night.

I will write out the poem, and explain at the end.

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Chamomile

Lonely with my romance books

From my mirror despising looks

Chamomile, my constant friend

Lay me down at the days end

Corduroys

Holes in the legs

Coffee cups

Drained to the dregs

Faded books

Lining ledge

All my life

Never had edge

To my room, alone in bed

Things unsaid torment my head

Chamomile, my constant friend

Lay me down at the day's end

Lavender

On my pillow

Winter wind

At my window

Darkest night

Will slowly grow

Purposes

I hardly know

Long lost dreams will take their toll

Tease my heart and rend my soul

Chamomile my constant friend

Lay me down at the day's end

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I didn't want to own up to this poem at first, because I didn't feel like it accurately described me in the present time.  I am not lonely for love, or purposeless.  I am marrying my best friend, and I know what my purpose is... to serve Christ and seek His kingdom.  Because of these things, I distanced my self from my creation in interpretation, and only conceded that yes, I became a chamomile drinker in 5th grade.

I wondered if I was writing something that was too far outside of myself, something I didn't know, and I continued to tell people that it wasn't about me, it was some of my characteristics projected onto another character.  "Please, don't worry about me."

Then, on Saturday, it clicked.  A month after writing it, I realized that "Chamomile" is adolescent Abby.  When I moved to California from Illinois, I was desperately lonely, and questioned many things about life.  I was an avid reader of Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters (romance books) and I fell in love with the calming effects of chamomile tea.  I wanted to be loved, and I watched others date and enjoy popularity in sadness.

Yet, despite all this there was happiness in my life.  I wasn't completely joyless.  But sometimes you can't be happy if you don't confront the grief, madness, and pain in your life.  You can ignore it, but it's still there.  It's part of being fallen.

There is freedom for me in accepting these things and giving them to Christ.  He can heal me from the sickness I inherited at birth.  It is important for me to own up to my own shortcomings even if it makes other people feel uncomfortable.  If I don't confess the fact that I came from darkness, and now I am a child of light, of what use am I?  My danger is that I will allow my Christian background to disguise the fact that I died and Christ lives in me.  Knowing my weakness allows me to see the strength of Christ.  There is no other way.

The lonely, crazy Abby is daily dying again to Christ.  My flesh is fallen, but Jesus in His grace is sanctifying me.  This is my story, of my Jesus I will sing.