Cringing at Our Past Art
But why?
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I self-published 90-some poems in 2015 that I wrote about my ex who cheated on me, and the breakup that completely destroyed my world. Something told me to look back at this (it was the Chani App, ok?). Apparently for us Cancer Risings something creative we did in 2015 would be resurfacing. The advice was to consider getting back to this creative medium. I obviously listened. Last Saturday, I updated the bio on the back cover, not the actual content, but this would mean having to look at said actual content.
It’s hard to look back at things we’ve created. It can feel painful, cringey, and a multitude of other emotions. Why is it so cringe though? Why are we so afraid of our past selves?
The poems I wrote in 2015 are potentially cringey, and I was tits-deep in, what some will refer to as, “Instagram poetry.” The style is short, simple (in form and language), and thought of as “not real poetry” by poetry gatekeepers.
What is “real” poetry, though? What is “real” art?
I started writing poetry when I was seven. It was my first writing style that I played with and I loved. I would write poems about any and everything, and I particularly liked writing haikus.
In my senior year of high school, I did an independent study where I wrote and published a chapbook of poems titled, Wrap Me in the Blue. The cover photo is of Danish woman my late uncle dated. At the time, I loved this photograph. I liked the look of her. I made stories about what she was thinking. The poems I wrote for this chapbook were mostly about my teenage angst, medical trauma, and unrequited love.
I looked back at my book from 2015. It’s called, “Leftovers,” and is about “…the stuff that comes out when a relationship ends; when a death happens; when you become yourself fully. These poems are my leftovers—strength and vulnerability I never knew I had.” I read the poems and I cringed, yes, but I also appreciated some of the lines I had written. For example, “Tell me the truth and that organ you call a heart might finally become one.” Or this one, “I’m still collecting the butterflies you chased from my belly.” It’s not amazing; it won’t win any awards, but it’s mine. It represents where I was, and who I was at an integral time.
Why do we feel so embarrassed about things we once loved or ways of being that we once were? Probably because people can be harsh, and we have a tendency to be our own harshest critics.
The first tattoo I got is three letters in all-caps on my left upper back. It says, “LHW.” It means “Lachrista Has Wings.” At 18, I was a huge Fiona Apple fan (still am), and I read that she had a tattoo that said, “FHW.” About a decade ago, I thought about getting this small, inconsequential tattoo of mine covered up. I felt embarrassed by it. I felt silly for having it. Now, I’m so glad I left it alone. Like my poems from 2015, this tattoo represents a moment in time; it represents a moment of who I was and a part of who I still am.
I’m now planning a new book of poetry, but will still be selling my old one, too. For a second I thought maybe I would completely erase Leftovers from the internet. But then I decided that I wanted those poems out there; I want people to buy it if they want to. I want them to reach whomever might need them.
Art is subjective after all, and one person’s cringe is another person’s glory.
🫀 Mood Board for the Week
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This is exactly what I needed to hear. I was having similar feelings about my first self-published book, and was considering erasing it from the internet. I love how you framed it as capturing a moment in time. Also I can’t wait to read your next book of poetry when it comes out! 💗
Thank you for this. I am were you’ve been. I’m unsure of what comes next. I’ve poured my soul onto pages and measured all my emotions and feelings with words. More still pours but now it’s a different version of me that writes.