I spent a large portion of my childhood writing poetry. I used it to express myself in a world where I was unsure of what I was allowed to feel. At a young age we often struggle to recognise that what we feel may be the same as someone else, even if they are unable to portray their struggle the same way. This last week in ASTU 100, I feel like I have been given the opportunity to revisit my my entire life so far, but with a lens that helps me better understand myself now that I know my world a little bit better.

The wonderful thing about poetry is its genuine subjectivity. What may be poetic to one could be an arbitrary string of words to another. Trying to decipher personal poetry can be like trying to solve a colourless Rubick’s cube. I have learnt that poetry is a form of expression. It can embody almost any emotion, be it playful, symbolic, or sad (just to name a few).

Colorless Rubick’s Cube: https://www.pinterest.ca/pin/380906080974518276/

Poetry differs from classic literature in a way that it sets the stage for you to paint your own depiction of it. Rarely does good poetry spell out what it wants you to know, but rather it gives you a skeleton key to open your own mind and take from it what you find most valuable.

In ASTU 100 we have been looking at poetry and how it can have both cultural and political implications. Often poetry helps express ideas that are best not stated directly. Under the guise of a poem, we can see and even better understand the unspoken intentions if deciphered correctly. For example, in class the first poem we looked at was “In Flanders Fields.” I did not know about this poem until my first Remembrance Day here in Vancouver. When I read the poem for the first time, it brought me back to my basic military training where we walked through a cemetery and took time to recognise all the soldiers who died in World War II fighting for us. This field trip in my training was a way to show us the purpose of being a soldier and why we carried such an important marker in society. In the poem, the soldiers are portrayed as heroes and the people reading it are implicitly urged on to continue the fight in their name. Later we were shown that during the time this poem was first released, it was turned into a marketing scheme to promote “Victory Bonds.” It just goes to show how war was initially ignited from passion and how unfortunately like most things nowadays, it is all about money. This poem, at least to me, speaks to how even the things that wars are fought over, are rendered purposeless by assigning monetary value onto them; a potentially politically precarious proposal on my part, but the way I see it, nonetheless. I must state my bias though for my own habitus is one of a soldier who was simply considered government property on paper, and not an actual human being.

In Flanders Fields: http://samvousa.org/flanders-field-poppies-blow/

Buy Victory Bonds: https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/561613016011734376/?autologin=true

As a child I often wrote poetry about my immediate surroundings and I often wish I had saved this poetry so I could go back and analyse myself; I find little pieces of it scattered around in old notebooks and pieces of paper, but in a way its a metaphor for my life. As someone who grew up everywhere, with a plethora of unique experiences, I don’t have one place to go back to and revisit all of my memories that made me who I am. Rather than having one piece of myself to analyse, I have scattered pieces of myself all over the world. Until I understood the unique aspect of my situation, I felt purposeless, but just because life is purposeless, does not mean our lives cannot have purpose. Poetry, at least for some people, can give them that meaning their lives are lacking. Poetry is what got me through my childhood and helped give me meaning in a world where I felt I had none.

Alas, I shall leave you with a poetic gesture, an original composition written by yours truly:

A Soldiers Purpose

When I grow up, I want to change the world,

I don’t have powers like Superman,

But I have hours, like a clock,

One I stare at, hoping for time to pass,

Watching it through my forlorn looking glass,

The best of days I crave an ice age, to slow its hands,

The worst of days I crave a volcano, to burn through its pain,

These hours I have, I choose to spend,

Helping those, who cannot fend,

For those that I, can help make change,

I need not fly, to play this game,

I wear no cape, no symbol on my chest,

But I do my best, to help the rest.

Written by Sartaj A. Singh, 8th February 2018