Stupid shell tricks
Ironically, M.S. wrote in her blog tonight about how she used to write poetry and short fiction in high school. I say ironically because I was just about to write a similar blog entry. So M.S. this is your notice to get out of my head (hey, where did all these penguins come from?).
I wrote tons of poetry when I was a kid. It wasn’t half-bad either. I actually placed in 2 different national contests. One was for Cricket magazine, where I got honorable mention. The other was a middle school contest and I got second or third or something, got to go to a dinner banquet which I very vaguely recall and get a plaque. My mom religiously submitted my poetry to the local Mensa newsletter and they always published it.
Then something happened. I became a horrible nasty teenager and Mom was just like, you know, soooooooo stupid and if she said the sky was blue, I’d roll my eyes at her and say “Motherrrrrrrr, it’s totally not blue, it’s magenta, sheesh.” Etc. Ad nauseum. If I had a time machine I’d go back and smack myself around. But I digress. Mom was the one who encouraged my poetry and always challenged me to write more, do more, get better grades – basically always setting the bar for me. I was set and determined to do absolutely nothing that would please her, so I quit writing poetry. If something was required for a class, I’d write something (and it would be pretty good, too, there was one about Nobody Can that I think is probably my favorite that I’ve done) but I wouldn’t show it to her. Someday I’ll find my stash and post something here. I can’t remember any of them now.
Then something else happened. My mom died suddenly when I was 16. And I realized that I couldn’t write poetry anymore. I wanted to, but I just couldn’t. Complete and utter writer’s block. I only managed to get one line out – “but that eggnog tasted bitter” (referring to the Christmas after she died when I took over making the eggnog for the family), but I couldn’t put anything around it. My friend A. found the scrap of paper that I wrote my one line on and thought it was funny (but not funny ha-ha), and I couldn’t (and never have been able to) explain what it was about. I just shrugged it off.
I’ve written one poem in the 15 years since Mom died. No, actually, I wrote 2. One was for a friend who was in a hospice dying of AIDS, a sort of epistle that I regret horribly that I never sent to him. The other was, in my opinion, a pity party, but it was one of the only poems I wrote that actually rhymed and had scansion. I can’t remember all of it and I can’t find a damned copy anywhere, but here’s what I remember
Angst
From time to time I grow so tired; my heart aches to cry out:
“My God, I am full of weaknesses and I am full of doubt.”
Nothing is how it ever was and nothing is as it seems
How did I grow so old so fast and to where went all my dreams?
…and so on. Wah, wah, better call whine-one-one and request a waaaaaaaaah-mbulance. The only part I liked was the last line:
“Meanwhile a sullen monster comes along and eats the sea”
…which I have no idea what it means, but I really dig it.