I do not consider myself a poet. At all. I've probably written a dozen poems in my life, and at least half of those were for the poetry writing class I took in college. When you count the poetic words I've ever put on paper and compare those to the novel words I've done the same with, well...the poetry side of the scale doesn't even dip. It's a tiny drop in a huge ocean of writing.
Actually, that's when I write a poem. When an event hits me so hard that the emotion of it is so intense, so much, that I can only express it in a single drop. It's kind of like everything else in my head goes away, and my brain constricts down to that one, tight, intense feeling.
Then I try and put it on paper. The poem becomes a kind of release.
I don't show these to people.
Except, what the heck. It's Poetry Month. I have a blog. It's not like I'm going to post this stuff, and some agent is going to write me a polite rejection letter in my comments. (Please.)
So I'm walking out to the edge of the diving board, and I'm gonna jump!
Katie Davis, at Brain Burps, is being what I consider incredibly brave (not to mention productive) and writing a poem a day for Poetry Month. No, I'm not joining her in this endeavor. What I've decided to do is try and post one of my poems every Poetry Friday of this month. Most of them will be poems I've already written, and I may not make it the whole month, because I'll be traveling near the end.
But, you know...the thought is here. :)
So today, for a start, is the one new poem you might actually see on this blog. I wrote it earlier this week, and it was the impetus for my decision to join in with the month's festivities!
Enjoy. And check out the rest of this week's Poetry Friday Roundup at Becky's Book Reviews.
Still Here
I dreamt you, Grandpa,
standing at the window
watching us come.
Then, inside,
you were two-feet tall,
with jeans that hung baggy
and long
like you were a toy.
You saw me and smiled,
and light
came into the room
and into me.
Your words,
just like at the end,
broke through the strokes
in stuttering pieces.
Is that...Re-b-eccaaa?
You...are...beautiful.
In my dream,
just like when you were still here,
I was sad to come.
You were no longer solid and strong
or taller than me,
but curled
into the wheelchair,
or standing small in your toy jeans.
Until you smiled
and held out your arms.
I ran to your hug,
tight,
and smelled your smell.
This morning,
with gray fog in the sky
and stiff joints,
I am beautiful.
And I walk on water again.
- Mood:
nervous - Music:Los Lobos--The Ride
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chasethestars
chasethestars
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