My Poetry's Origin Story
In my English class with a teacher woman.
Only two things I remember from back then.
Psychosis poem and Of Mice and Men
My first poetry grade but my second poem.
Poems are not intuitive, so we are given an outline.
All we need to do is fill in the blanks with rhymes.
I ask my teacher if I can go a little off script.
The outline is happy and peaceful. I don’t like it.
It was not a poem. It was Dr. Suess.
I’ve seen poems invite hatred. I refuse
To mock my previous experience.
A poetry performance is torturous.
So it was that I came to read my poem aloud.
Oh, but I just get so nervous when in front of a crowd.
My eyes cross, the words blur, I can’t even read.
Luckily, I knew my poem by memory.
I have mixed memories of what happened.
A half-remembered scene where I’m frightened.
I speak quickly, mumbling quietly.
My words squished together, incoherently.
But, everyone clapped and cheered.
They applauded. I was adored.
This joy and achievement is clear.
A distinct memory I hold dear.
So my speech must have been greater than I thought.
It must have followed my idyllic dream where I fought
My fear. My chants, of turmoil barely bound.
A clear voice, a wave of emotion flound-
Ers to get across an imperfect medium.
My powerful diction didn’t quite roll off the tongue.
For the poem was simply a string of synonyms.
It rhymed but was not grammatical perfection.
The words made no sense.
With or without context.
I didn’t know the meaning of those big words.
Each verse, inconsistent with the others.
Why did everyone like my performance?
As far as I could tell, my lyrics were trash.
My first poem had such poor reception,
I never wanted to perform again.
Naturally, my second poem was better than my first.
But why so much that the reaction is reversed?
My first poem’s problem was how it was received.
Silence of disapproval showed me what they believed.
But I guess it doesn’t matter anymore,
How I came to be the person who ignores
His fears and goes to perform anyway.
Sharing his poems as he does today.