Thinking about poems and poetry and writing (and drawing, insists the Kid).
We stopped at Laurel Books today. I was looking at poetry books, probably prompted by St Brigid/Imbolc poetry posts. Ishmael asked me if I like poetry. I think I answered, less than coherently, that I like some poetry. Why was that a difficult question for me? Easier to answer if I write – not now.
Which leads to a conversation I had (9 or 10?!) years ago with somebody (a local poet) in a tamale/coffee place, who asked if I write poetry. I answered, not now, but I did in high school. He said to the effect that “everybody writes poetry in high school.” Humph. I am not everybody and I did not write that poetry. (Only sometimes I wrote that poetry.) I slid out of that conversation quickly, but 10 years later I am still irritated and offended. (time to put it down)
Today’s conversation was much more interesting. He (Ishmael at the bookstore, not the other guy) asked if I write poetry. I managed not to answer “everybody writes in high school” in an annoying self-deprecating way (that’s sticky shit). I went to an arts high school for writing, but I hardly write now. He asked if I still have some of my poems from then. I do, said with a proud smile (felt like it to me, anyway). Oh! Most people don’t like to look at their high school poems anymore. (damn, I’m not getting this accurately) Huh. I suppose not. (this was not an entirely me-sided conversation, but I’m leaving out all the stuff on his side) (he writes)
Now I’m digging around at home, looking for our high school publications, and not finding them. Where is my packet from my senior reading? I hope it’s in a box still. I threw out a lot of stuff from high school just before the Kid was born, but I would think I kept that. I have some good poems in there.
A couple months ago, I sat down to write a sonnet. Oof. But it was fun and illuminating. Oddly enough, writing needs practice. (I rapidly devolved to words of one syllable only) The Kid dictated a Really Terrible Poem not long ago (it’s awesome). I think I know where it is. You’ve been warned. I will share them both.
Ah! Here they are! First, the illustration that poetry takes practice, an unfinished sonnet written during the Kid’s martial arts class:
Sorry Sonnet of Parenting
Accusing me of everything! the cry
of children teasing, maybe not or yes
And now we wait a little early to die.
No, not to die but martial arts new class.
Ha We are family of our times and I
will write with words that sound two beats or less
But keep my mouth quiet because advice
Annoys. with ten minutes to make a mess.
My butt is cold and stiff, the chair
Be glad I stopped (but you notice I’m sharing anyway?) (for the laughs!)
And the poem dictated by the Kid:
A Really Terrible Poem
My heart is like rotten potatoes,
left too long
in the sun.
My feet smell like rotten eggs (stinky).
My intestines oh so mushy
at the sight of a dead skunk.
Then lunch arrived at the table, so he stopped.
I’ll leave you with a real poem I wrote, in 1999, soon after we moved to the Bay Area. It was published in Sanctuary: The University of Alabama at Birmingham Honors Program Literary Journal Fall 2000.
November Mornings on 101
I’m not the type to drive
aimless hours
just to
drive and watch the road
blur under and slip behind.
I’ll sit and watch
a tree whisper,
let go a secret of a bird or seed
maybe if I’m still.
But November sunrises
slowly light the sky
my back and forth drive
and I could drive
until I’m lost
in this soft
silk light.
(I bought a few books. A Different Kind of Pretty by Joshilyn Jackson. The Dirt Is Red Here: Art and Poetry from Native California edited by Margaret Dubin. From Totems To Hip-Hop: A Multicultural Anthology of Poetry Across the Americas, 1900-2002 edited by Ishmael Reed. [The last will balance out my high school copy of the Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry. {I studied Spanish literature in college}])
