Of Poetry

I cheated in a poetry contest in 10th grade.  I went to a private school that competed every year in a regional convention.  Other private schools got together with our schools and we competed—in our uniforms—in everything from Ping-pong, to basketball, to speech writing and giving, to poetry and other forms of writing, to chess, to cross-stitching....  Yeah, we were very cool. 

The principle's wife, who was a long-ago English teacher, came in to do a little poetry workshop.  Then she made us all write a poem for homework.  She was going to pick the best poems and enter them into this regional convention.  

In 10th grade, I didn't write poetry.  I was just getting into writing of any sort, and even that was few and far between (average of one cliché per blog).  So, like any assignment in high school, I put it off until the night before, and instead of rhyming a few words together and calling it a night, I decided to copy the words of one of the songs from this obscure band I had been listening to.  Then I spent a couple hours switching some of the words around so I at least could say I didn't totally cheat (Though now, in my wiser state, I know very well that I was cheating).  


Anyway, she loved my poem.  She put it in regionals, where it won 3rd prize and went on to a national convention where it got 10th or something.  I felt horrible about it.  I thought of running on stage and saying, "I didn't write it.  Please, please give my 10th place ribbon the 11th place winner.  He deserves it."  But I didn't.  What self-respecting 10th grader would have?


My family was elated.  My mom was bragging all over the place, telling aunts and uncles and everyone. They announced my success in Church (the school was run out of the church).  My grandma bought me a notebook.  She said I could fill it up with all of my poetry.  

So I was lying in my bed, trying to figure out how I could make up for all of it.  I couldn't just tell people.  Right?  I didn't think so.  So I did the only thing I could do: I wrote a poem, a real one, that wasn't copied out of anything.  


I can't remember what it was, but I remember feeling proud of myself.  And I filled up that little notebook, and, well, I haven't stopped writing since.  


I read Life of Pi, years later, in the 5th year of my first degree (I squeezed 4 years into 5).  I mentioned in an earlier post that it was the first book that made me think about what the writer was doing and not just what the writer was saying.  And I think it was after this when I started writing fiction, and not poetry.  


By the time I got to UofR, I was very into writing—I was a novelist!—but never read or wrote poetry.  But I took English 252 with Dr Wall, and the first day of class she told us we had to read a poem from The Writer's Almanac, online, every day of the semester.  It was the first time I had really read any poetry that wasn't all rhyming and Romantic, like Wordsworth or whoever.  And I actually enjoyed it.  I was even trying my hand at poetry before we were even required to (though the first poem I submitted was much more than a bomb).


By the end of the class, I had submitted a couple decent poems, nothing spectacular; it didn't change my mind into becoming a poet, but it was fun, and I thought I might keep it up afterward.


I didn't.


What I did keep up, was reading the poems on The Writer's Almanac.  They are awesome.  Some days, the poems are just kind of nice, but don't really speak to me.  But other days, the poems just punch me in the gut and make want to grab my notebook and get down to friggen writing.  When a poem hits you in the right spot, it's like some kind of beautiful slap in the face and you just can't help being moved.  


I can't speak for all fiction writers, but for me, I'm in love with the sentence.  A sentence, with the commas and hyphens and dashes and semi-colons or whatever,  can be pure magic.  It can jab.  It can sing lullabies.  A single good sentence can be more of a character development than a full three pages.  It can prick the hairs on your neck, give you goosebumps.  


I think, for poets, it's even more simple; poets are in love with words.  I think poets should teach kids how to read.  They could just stand in front of the class and read a word out loud and say, "Isn't this exciting kids? We're learning to read words."  and the kids would cheer and say, "Yeah!" and they'd grow up reading books and buying books of poetry and short fiction and they'd start some revolution that says, 'Shut off that damn TV and read a book.'


When I'm stuck, when I feel the need to write, but nothing's falling onto the page, I read poetry.  I listen to music. I drive around. And I read poetry.  One of these three things, sometimes more than one at a time, will get me writing.  


But lately, the poetry has been enough.  I read a poem a day on The Writer's Almanac, and I spend the day wishing I didn't have homework, or reading assignments, or any responsibilities at all...


So I could get down to some freakin' writing.