I am Van Gogh’s emasculated ear
Severed to diminish feeling I died before I became real
Comprised of stories no one wants to hear
And rendered out of print, like an old fashioned picture book
Disproportionate in words and imagery
When I speak, the herd turns its heedless back
I blame them not, for my voice sounds sweeter when gagged
By those who hear only sounds
Transcribed by waves that are fluid, loud and clear
Shedding emotions, like translucent onion peel
I try to moo aloud
But no one answers back
Thus, as I sit alone in a crowd of crushing pain and fear
I raise my hands to my head
But find that it has disappeared
This poem was inspired by circumstances I experienced only yesterday. I joined a writers group because I wanted to improve my writing. But, when I sat passively listening to the group’s critique of one of my poems, I realised that I perceived my writing as not a projection of my consciousness, but as myself in a textual form. Thus, whilst I fully accepted, even welcomed, feedback about my use of language and how engaging they found the poem, I felt crushed when the critique disintegrated into an attack on the ideology and thought processes behind the poem. In a sudden revelatory flash, I realised that it matters not whether my writing is, “good” or, “bad.” I write for myself and if other people like it, I am blessed. To what extent the critique constituted a personal attack on me, I do not know. But, it saddens me to think a group formed to encourage people to write, should conduct itself in such a manner. If this situation had happened to some one else, I would have felt the same. I shall not go back to the group, but I shall always write.