THE POWER OF POETRY
you know what else is depressing? bad poetry- especially when i’m the one writing it.
Usually I have the sense to confine such drivel to the private pages of my journal, content to only fantasize that at their publication, accolades would come pouring in. But every once in a while i fancy that there may be some seed of truth/reality to my fantasies. I begin to imagine, to believe that the only obstacle to receiving the critical acclaim and recognition I so desire comes not from a lack of talent (oh no) but from my incredible modesty that has prevented the literary world from discovering my poetic genuis.
At one such moment, my friends, who were editors of the high school year book at the time, capitalized on this vanity-induced delusion and, desperate for submissions, persuaded me to share one of my pieces. It took its place with the other insipid poems published that year- all of them similiarly themed with cliched metaphors, the rhyming vocabulary of a 6th grader, an uneven meter, and (worst of all) deep earnestness. Here it is:
when she hurts you, i’ll be there
to listen to your heart
and i’ll be there to comfort you
when you two are apart
but even though i’m always there
to tell you to have faith
when i see you two together
it makes my small heart ache
all i think of day and night
is your flawless face
and when i shiver from the cold
i yearn for your embrace
i treasure every detail
yours eyes, the way you smile
and just by being near you
makes me feel my life’s worthwhile
I long for your affection,
if you could just belong to me
but because my love is true,
my heart will set you free
i wont tie you down,
all my feelings i will hide
i’ll accept it’s her you love,
and i’ll be satisfied
you’re happy when you’re with her
and so i’ll let things be
but i hope one day you’ll find
your happiness in me
I still can’t read it without wincing- particularly when i come across the words “yearn” and “flawless.” Not to mention the image it projects. I wish i could say that I had assumed another voice while writing, that it was a creative venture-dabbling in expressing different emotions and personas, but unfortunately- its pretty much all me: prepubescent, inferior, obsequious me.
Was flipping through old yearbooks with K a while back when i came across it again. The thought of K and 1999 other former students reading it still gives me a stomach ache sometimes. At least on my blog, i can post the poem in its proper context as opposed to the sense pride and accomplishment implied in its appearance in the yearbook.
ANOTHER SHORT ENTRY
One more month of school left and provided i get all my assignments in on time (hey, its possible!), i should be back to blogging full speed by mid spring. Until then, more jot notes:
- you know what’s depressing? coming across a “to do” list you wrote last summer and finding 8 months later, you still cant cross anything off.
