Revisiting the poetry I wrote during my youth. Don’t worry … I won’t bore you for long. You might even feel inspired.
Last night I pulled out the beat-up black 3-ring binder that holds the poetry and essays I wrote back when I was a melancholy teenager and through the first few years of motherhood. I suppose I was looking to see how much I’d grown as a writer, maybe to get some insight into who I used to be from the perspective of the elder I’ve become.
What I expected to find among the yellowed papers was trash. What I got was actually not too horrible. It isn’t Shakespeare, and I still don’t write like him — but frankly, I was pleasantly proud of the younger me and what she did.
And we all have to start somewhere, right?
Here’s the somewhere of my start. Enjoy. Or not.
And always remember, no matter when you start to write — whether you’re 6 or 96 — be content with where you are. You’ll get better, no matter how long you’ve been writing. I’m still growing as a writer, and I’ve been at it a long time. Each second you spend writing, experience the joy in each of them. String those together and you’ll have a most auspicious journey.
I was probably 15 or 16 when I wrote this poem. One wintery weekend at lunch, my imagination took off, and this is how it took to the page. It’s a tomato soup sci-fi tragedy sort of thing.
The Scum on Top of My Tomato Soup
There’s a grotesque scum on top of my tomato soup
staring back at me, waiting to be lifted from the bowl.
If I touch it, would it infect my spoon,
crawl down the handle onto my fingers,
contaminate my arm and spread itself
like a cancer through my body
then attack my brain and commit a torturous murder?
No! I won’t touch it!
But what if I let the scum stay on top of the tomato soup?
Would it turn into a blob that would soon be bigger than the bowl,
and then would it grow into an even larger wrinkly-red
scum blob and overtake the world?
I know! I’ll dump the whole bowl of scummy soup into the sink
and drown it with hot water. What a deserving death!
But look! Isn’t it just tomato soup?
When I was in high school (go Downers Grove North!), juniors and seniors had the option to take Journalism instead of English. I did that both years because (1) I’d get to write, and (2) I’d be published in every issue of our local weekly newspaper, with a byline and everything. A big deal when you’re a kid.
Our journalism teacher, Mrs. B., emphasized over and over again that we needed to use active verbs instead of passive verbs.
You remember active and passive voice, right?
I was scratched by the cat. (passive)
The cat scratched me. (active)
I wrote this limerick one day during class because I figured it was the only way to get that rule out of my head, since my intuition already knew it.
The Beginner
There once was a writer who couldn’t
market her novels but wouldn’t
write many words
or use active verbs
All the pros told her later she should’ve.
I must have been in a mood when I wrote this. I’m kinda in love (still) with the last two lines.
Poor, Sad Me
Depressing poem —
going home
to my bed.
Set my head
on the pillow.
Weep, willow.
Finally, here’s the last poem I want to share with you. I must have been fed up the day I wrote this. My daughter was a toddler, my husband (at the time) was in the awkward process of resurrecting his childhood dream of being a magician. At any given time, my field of vision included playing cards flying out of decks, balls dropping and rolling on the floor, magic wands swishing, and magician’s patter peppering the air.
In that house, I had no dedicated writing space. We had an open floorplan with no spare rooms for a writing room. Everything was out in the open.
To add to the confusion, we also had one dog, two cats, two parakeets, and two large aquariums full of fish — some that ate other fish as part of their normal diet. It was a zoo, almost literally.
Trying to write every day, plus working full time, tending to personal relationships, and trying to manage the household was more than chaos.
I know some of you can relate
The Writing Mom
The cats chase the dog,
the dog jumps on me,
my child starts to cry —
she fell on her knee.
My husband is practicing
his magic and juggling,
the telephone rings —
a friend was struggling.
It’s like this all day
and each evening too.
There’s no excuse for not writing.
What’s a mother to do?
All of that happened a long time ago. If I could have changed any part of it at the time, I wouldn’t have…not for anything. Which brings us to the present — many, many, many years later. My writing habit has remained constant, I’ve had a dedicated writing space for forty years, life is a lot less chaotic, and my muses speak loud and clear. May you find enough quiet in the chaos to hear the words they utter, no matter the turmoil surrounding you.
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