Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Petits Morceaux de Moi, Part I


Okay. Here’s the deal. I write really crappy poetry. Or, at least I used to.

A few years ago I suddenly realized that I hadn’t picked up my pencil and Crappy Poetry Notebook in ages, so I sat down and began to think.

Think, think, think.

Nothing happened. Hmmm.

I used to be able to spit out crappy poetry like nobody’s business! What the heck was wrong with me?!

Then the light bulb went on. *bling*

I hadn’t written poetry since I’d started my life with Eric! I hadn’t written poetry since I’d become happy!

Over the next couple of years I did manage to churn out two more poems. Once right after I got married to Eric and the other, right after I had our baby, Alex. The poems are about Eric & Alex respectively. Duh.

So, it turns out that not only am I not creative enough to write poetry for the sake of writing poetry, but I’m not really even creative enough to write a decent poem even when overcome by artistic angst. Damn.

But, lucky you, Dear Reader! Since this is my way of journaling my journey, I thought that I would revisit some of those old poems and try to recall what miserable event in my past life inspired them. This ought to be fun. (Maybe not so much for you…)

Oy.

Let’s see. Where shall we begin? I could go chronologically…hmmm. I don’t know. I think it would be more fun to just pick one that strikes my fancy and go for it.

Okay. Poem #1:



Childhood Revisited

There was a place deep in the woods of Southern Illinois,
Where fairies danced and sunbeams swirled
and troubles gave way to joy.

A circle in the midst of trees where shafts of light touched ground –
Where grass so green and clover deep
made sweet every uttered sound.

I sat on stumps of ancient trees and read from treasured books –
Entranced, enchanted, lost in time,
in my dear sweet woodland nook.

In my dreams I remember this place so free from care and strife -
A lovely little paradise,
in this child’s life.



This was written in May of 1999, two years before my divorce. I’m pretty sure I was attempting desperately to cling on to any remembrance of happier times as my marriage was on its last pathetic crippled leg.


The place this poem is about was in the woods behind my grandparents’ two-story white farmhouse in Illinois. I loved everything about that house and the land around it. My sisters and I happened upon this little opening one day and decided that with its tree stumps arranged perfectly so, that it would be the absolute perfect spot to bring books to and sit and do our out loud story reading. The ground cover in the opening consisted almost entirely of dark green clover. When story time ended, we got a great deal of pleasure and frustration out of searching for four-leaf clovers.


For children who tried to stay out of sight so they would be out of mind and out of firing range of their crazy parents, this spot was a sanctuary. It’s as clear to me in my mind right now as if I were sitting there.


So, there you have it, the first of many amateur poems. Admittedly, although amateur, the writing of them certainly did provide me with some catharsis. Hallelujah for that.

1 comment:

lakeviewer said...

Not just catharsis. Writing helps us clarify and focus, find paths out of the dark woods.