HOW TO UNLOCK THE POET WITHIN

POEMS BY JOIE

So Maybe you write poetry or want to write and you are blocked. Here are some poems that express parts of my journey unlocking my creativity. First — You have to get out of the head and into the heart. How..get into the body with 5 rhythms dance or music to create flow state. You must be relaxed when you create, sometimes it hits you. But mainly you have to stop trying so hard. Poems don't really belong to us, when they are powerful its when they come from our raw feelings.

From a young age, creative ideas have flooded me non stop and I never knew how to manage them. I was confused in my twenties about what path to take so I explored everything. I rebelled after my Design degree in holland working with artists and left the design world into the theatrical cinema world performing making set designs, animations, making healing installation and clown performances. This was a gift and a curse, it allowed me to expand and connect with the core essence without limits, but it stretched my energy and became a distraction. At had 10 projects going on at once. I have spent my life giving through creativity and it wasn’t until i was 30 did I truly start to go deeper into creativity as a source of healing and enjoyment for myself. I was presenting myself to the world instead of living it, and life was more like a project then an experience. When I was silent and tired I realised I love singing and writing songs so I began to struggle and push through the pursuit to find my authentic expression and voice. Then I started to discover that creativity could be a dance with the universe if we became hollow and let life talk through us. Slowly I am opening to feeling, responding and expressing life through me, this is the true gift of creativity. In response to my journey I have empathy for people who are blocked and often write encouraging people to let go.

www.joiedewinterpoetry.wordpress.com

I’M NOT THE POET! (© Joie de Winter)
I am not the poet, you are!
Poets gaze far,
They sit and sink,
Wait in stillness,
Turning colors up,
Making meaning.
Cross threading,
Snowdrop spring,
against black winter crows.
Rambling into clarity,
Stumbling for grace,
Calling in refinement,
Waiting for truth.
To crawl over,
Crawl into your skin,
From the cosmos,
Leaking stardust,
And useful downloads,
In modern tongue,
To pass on.
We wait and listen.
Web weaving thought conclusions,
Marking out symbolic reasons.
On a fast breathe,
Some days poems can’t be caught,
Won’t be caught,
if we over seek them.
Some days nature writes itself,
Behind unpick-able bark,
Buried under deep soil,
In worm’s bellies,
Unreachable.
Poets fingers,
Turn to worms,
Writing to the sun,
For a bit of rain.
Swallowed by crows,
That wobble on the oak,
Crow belly darkness.
Wind makes turbulence,
Twigs break,
Worms break rest,
Poetry is written.
If you wait long enough,
Wide eyed feeling,
Oaks will talk,
Start guiding.
Filling poets empty pockets,
With foreigner crows begging,
Eyeing up your bread,
Pecking at your croissant bag,
You laid down for connection.
Near your feet, like a setup.
Slowly they relax,
Still one eye up,
Eight beak’s down.
We play,
I look away.
They hover above,
Around me.
I like feeling circled,
And swayed,
by their conniving innocence.
Fluffy bums.
I talk to them,
Like they’re my mates,
Thinking they know what I say.
It’s nice hanging out with birds,
Sharing my crumbs.
The crows squawk something,
I squawk something back.
There everywhere,
And a bit less evil.

BACK STAGE (© Joie de Winter)

(This poem is capturing the unfolding tough journey into unlocking my voice as a song writer, the journey to writing songs and speaking my truth was about embracing structure and giving up perfection, returning to enjoyment of expression. I was leaning on friends to help me, but eventually I had to go inside to my shadows and release the shame of expressing my true self. This poem was to a girl who dropped our band because I wasn’t opening enough and pushed me to be independent and reclaim my own voice, for her i am eternally grateful. )

BACK STAGE

You race faster than time,
Made before you’re made,
Because you believe in yourself,
Space expands,
Your voice expands,
Into every living room.
I am a golden spec,
covered in dust,
Watching myself fade,
In magnificence.
Singing whirlwinds,
Days long,
Remembering our song.
Wishing to be brighter,
Louder,
Positively perfect,
Like when I found her.
marvelling in melodies,
Dreaming bright,
It felt so free and right,
My skin glowing,
At my opening throat,
Band visions were medicine,
We shared hope.
We built light,
But I tripped,
Something wasn’t right.
Wasn’t my time.
I’m painting Frozen hearts,
Trying to stay in the limelight,
But it needs a beat,
First from me,
I see I need to believe,
Like she.
I need to stand when I am called,
And just jam everywhere,
With my soul.
And when doubt kicks in,
Push and play,
Against my edges,
Make myself stay.
I am scared,
My books empty,
You were guiding me.
Universe I know you love to test me,
But don’t let me fade,
Watching magnificence,
Backstage.

I CAN’T GO TO A KATE TEMPEST SHOW (© Joie de Winter)
Tickets anybody?
No, no, no!
Damn I really wanted to go to a Kate Tempest show?
Get what she gives it’s already inside,
Fire up,
Feel the flames,
Blow them intensely.
Unfold into the depths of humanity,
When you can’t go to a Kate Tempest show,
Next best thing,
Write a poem,
Whilst she performs.
I got my shovel digging deep,
I stamp my hardest and wiggle beneath.
Use a fork girl it’s easier.
Walk in the rain,
And taste the hale stones catching dew,
on my eyelids, Laughing.
Why they all hiding, squinting frowning,
Sink into life,
into my bones,
I see the grit I know the struggle,
But the rain is delicious,
The shadow.
Is growth,
Sunbeams and rainbows.
I imagine being in the crowd,
Moved to power in Kates fire.
I imagine it will fuel me my being entirely.
Dust down the gentle,
The victim,
Her words like strips of paint,
Wipe across my face,
Like a warrior!
Engrained, engraved in raw reality,
Ripping eyelids,
As wide as unseen culture.
Taking us into back street secrets,
Into, I see humans like vultures.
Feeding on, off,
Unjust layers.
She burns me down to heart and bones,
To soul.
The Barbican she swallows whole.
Reaching those that can’t even make her show.

CREATIVE CURE (© Joie de Winter)
Today I am a poet,
In the evenings,
I own it.
This morning I was an extra,
A games master.
I bow to it.
Mid day I was a dreamer,
Catching up with sleep.
From asking who I am,
On endless repeat.
I am a creative child,
A channel for love,
No more.
Tomorrow I may be a gardener,
What ever the world needs.
I’m ready to leap,
A creative carer,
Not another sheep.
Give me bumblebees,
And cherry pips,
I’ll plant them.
Then I’ll Find a remedy using rose hips.
Igniting the wisdom of ancestral father’s.
I’ll bash drums till my hands bruised,
Carry your shoes,
So you feel your feet,
The earth’s truth.
I’ll paint the sky
Inside your chest,
So you don’t need to look up,
To Let your heart rest.

EVERYONE’S WRITING POETRY (© Joie de Winter)
About peace, death and rage.
Soul reflecting soul,
Its beyond new age.
We are Christian, muslim and neither,
Religion was never meant to lead to slaughter.
Only back home inside,
Where love and compassion lie.
Where we find the stillness
And alter, this reality for future daughters.
And sons and fathers
Caring for animals and trees I’d rather.
Everyones writing poetry these days,
Words getting clearer.
They hit me much faster.
Left filled with laughter
There lighter.
No dense rants
Or anyone trying to be a master.
Its like everyone is facing the darker,
Sides at last

HANGING OUT HUMANITY (© Joie de Winter) (This poem is a response poem to a new poet, reconising her creative writing style and celebrating in her writing style.)
I laid my head,
on the floor to listen.
I knew your poem,
would make sense,
before you spoke it.
For your crafting truth,
on this planet.
And carrying irritability,
at the old.
I noticed when you speak,
there’s hope.
And when you write,
There’s clearing.
I feel the core,
In between your letters.
Weaving meaning.
and message,
into modern.
Into language,
well trodden.
I see you straightening,
out the folds of wisdom,
that lay hidden,
in the forgotten.
In unprocessed wounds,
that keep rotting.
You hang out truth,
like washing,
on the line,
Like bunting.
Dried by the sun.
Washed by your hands,
folding one by one,
to neaten up man.