My sister is a published poet. I am very proud of her, but I told her when her poetry book comes out, she will have to explain the poems to me. That’s right. I am an English major who does not understand poetry. If a poet writes about a flower, I usually think it is just about a flower. In college, I practically begged some of my professors to “just tell me what it means” when talking about certain poems. I needed some basis to form my own opinion.
I have made a few attempts to write poems over the years. I was seven when my cousin was killed in Viet Nam. I wrote a poem, but I don’t remember what it said. All I remember is asking my mom how to spell “bear” like when something is hard to “bear.” Sadly, that poem was lost. I am not sure when my poetry phobia began, but I distinctly remember crying in high school because I was supposed to write a Haiku during class, and my mind went blank. The teacher was kind enough to extend the assignment for me. I love teachers like that. I also remember being in a class where a partner and I were assigned a ballad. She suggested we write something romantic. I said, “Let’s write about the Indy 500.” She laughed, but she agreed.
I recently found these poems. Both must have meant enough to me to keep them for almost forty years. A girl named Lynn and I wrote “The Ballad of Mark Silver” about a race car driver killed on the last turn of the last lap of the Indianapolis 500. It was very dramatic. Here is my Haiku:
“The Beginning of Life”
The face of the child
gave mankind a special hope
like the Christmas star.
What do you think? Maybe there is hope for me yet!