Poetry
I was just cleaning up and organizing some of my Word files. I came across a whole mess of poetry that I wrote when I was young and fancied myself a free-spirited artsy type.
I studied poetry in college, of course. And I had a professor, Rose Reynoldson, who thought I was brilliant. This counted for something at the time. She was a published poet and I figured she must recognize brilliance when she saw it. She even arranged once for me to give a poetry reading. It was about 2 years after I had graduated. It was a wonderful moment for me, reading my work and seeing and hearing people respond to it. It kept me writing poetry for a few more years.
I was once even emboldened to submit my work for publication. In those days the Sunday supplement of the Seattle Times had a poetry section edited by a prof at the UW. I don't remember his name (and there's a reason for that). Every Sunday I read these very Northwesty poems about pine trees and Indian names and otters and I knew my work was every bit as good as any of it. So I wrote out some of my poems on notebook paper and sent them in with a handwritten cover letter. (OK. I studied poetry in school, not how to submit for publication).
A few weeks later I got a rejection letter. Only this wasn't some formulaic, "thanks for submitting your poetry however we cannot use it at this time" sort of thing. I could have handled that. No. This was a slam, a bombastic up-yours, a "not only is your poetry horrible but you dared to send in hand-written copies and whatever in the world possessed you to pick up a pen ever, let along inflict it on anyone else" sort of thing. This letter was so mean-spirited that I had no option but to shred and destroy it, then shower under very hot water for 30 minutes to remove the toxicity of it from my being. I wish now that I'd saved it, sealing it in a lead container and marking it "to be opened in twenty years". Just for grins. But probably getting rid of it altogether was the right thing to do. And no, I didn't let the jerk defeat me. I kept writing poetry for several years after that. What did he know? He was just some lit. professor at the U. And a few years later, I noted, he died. So there.
But the truth of the matter is, aside from there being no money in it, I wasn't a very good poet. I didn't stink. When I read my stuff now I don't completely recoil with revulsion. Some of it is decent and some lines, here and there, are actually pretty fine. But most of it is decidedly not great and I don't think the world is missing out on my not publishing it, the way we'd be missing out if, say, T.S. Eliot had stuck with banking.
After a while, the only poetry I wrote was for the kids I knew. I found a bunch of poems I'd written for my first neices and my nanny children. They were pretty cute...clearly influenced by A.A. Milne...but cute. Then I started feeling a little sad. Not only are all those children grown up now, but I realized that there wasn't a poem about The Child, not a single one.
When I was playing at being a poet I did develop a poet's sensibility. I was tuned in a particular way, taking inspiration from everything from china cups to quilts to rock 'n roll. I did develop an ear for cadence and aliteration (sometimes too much). And like any faculty you stop using, I began to lose that way of looking at things. Which is unfortunate. Perhaps this explains why I didn't write for The Child. That and being too busy changing her diapers and chasing after her and debating with her about the reasons for washing one's hands. Because obviously, I love her more than any of the kids I wrote for. Her life and beauty, her charm and pixilated spirit were all inspirational to me. And still are.
So anyway, I kept reading through all those poems and then it was obvious that I had engaged in that exercise once before and had obviously had similar feelings because way at the last of the pages I found this:
I was reading today all the poems I once wrote
for one child or another
but that was before my child came
and I became a mother.
Which is certainly not to suggest that becoming a mother has sucked every creative impulse right out of me. Nothing could be farther from the truth. I write about my girl all the time and if she ever goes looking for some sort of written record of my love for her she'll be able to find it, published and unpublished. Some of it is on notebook paper.
I studied poetry in college, of course. And I had a professor, Rose Reynoldson, who thought I was brilliant. This counted for something at the time. She was a published poet and I figured she must recognize brilliance when she saw it. She even arranged once for me to give a poetry reading. It was about 2 years after I had graduated. It was a wonderful moment for me, reading my work and seeing and hearing people respond to it. It kept me writing poetry for a few more years.
I was once even emboldened to submit my work for publication. In those days the Sunday supplement of the Seattle Times had a poetry section edited by a prof at the UW. I don't remember his name (and there's a reason for that). Every Sunday I read these very Northwesty poems about pine trees and Indian names and otters and I knew my work was every bit as good as any of it. So I wrote out some of my poems on notebook paper and sent them in with a handwritten cover letter. (OK. I studied poetry in school, not how to submit for publication).
A few weeks later I got a rejection letter. Only this wasn't some formulaic, "thanks for submitting your poetry however we cannot use it at this time" sort of thing. I could have handled that. No. This was a slam, a bombastic up-yours, a "not only is your poetry horrible but you dared to send in hand-written copies and whatever in the world possessed you to pick up a pen ever, let along inflict it on anyone else" sort of thing. This letter was so mean-spirited that I had no option but to shred and destroy it, then shower under very hot water for 30 minutes to remove the toxicity of it from my being. I wish now that I'd saved it, sealing it in a lead container and marking it "to be opened in twenty years". Just for grins. But probably getting rid of it altogether was the right thing to do. And no, I didn't let the jerk defeat me. I kept writing poetry for several years after that. What did he know? He was just some lit. professor at the U. And a few years later, I noted, he died. So there.
But the truth of the matter is, aside from there being no money in it, I wasn't a very good poet. I didn't stink. When I read my stuff now I don't completely recoil with revulsion. Some of it is decent and some lines, here and there, are actually pretty fine. But most of it is decidedly not great and I don't think the world is missing out on my not publishing it, the way we'd be missing out if, say, T.S. Eliot had stuck with banking.
After a while, the only poetry I wrote was for the kids I knew. I found a bunch of poems I'd written for my first neices and my nanny children. They were pretty cute...clearly influenced by A.A. Milne...but cute. Then I started feeling a little sad. Not only are all those children grown up now, but I realized that there wasn't a poem about The Child, not a single one.
When I was playing at being a poet I did develop a poet's sensibility. I was tuned in a particular way, taking inspiration from everything from china cups to quilts to rock 'n roll. I did develop an ear for cadence and aliteration (sometimes too much). And like any faculty you stop using, I began to lose that way of looking at things. Which is unfortunate. Perhaps this explains why I didn't write for The Child. That and being too busy changing her diapers and chasing after her and debating with her about the reasons for washing one's hands. Because obviously, I love her more than any of the kids I wrote for. Her life and beauty, her charm and pixilated spirit were all inspirational to me. And still are.
So anyway, I kept reading through all those poems and then it was obvious that I had engaged in that exercise once before and had obviously had similar feelings because way at the last of the pages I found this:
I was reading today all the poems I once wrote
for one child or another
but that was before my child came
and I became a mother.
Which is certainly not to suggest that becoming a mother has sucked every creative impulse right out of me. Nothing could be farther from the truth. I write about my girl all the time and if she ever goes looking for some sort of written record of my love for her she'll be able to find it, published and unpublished. Some of it is on notebook paper.
cobbled together by Moi at 1:13 PM
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