Learning to Love Poetry, in four parts

I.

The thin, paperback covers of the children's anthologies were cool to the touch

Under my fingers, still chubby and child-like.

They were pleasing to the eye,

Lined up so neatly on the shelf.

Edgar Allen Poe, Lewis Carroll, William Shakespeare.

The names were so abstract to me, meant so little.

My mother sat me in her lap and read to me her favorite one,

"O Captain! my Captain!" with a refrain that returned so faithfully,

Like the sea returning to the shore.

I forgot about the books, left them to sit on my shelf

In their neat, orderly row, lined up like a colorful bar code.

But the lines stuck, hidden but still present at the back of my mind.

 

II.

A fly buzzed lazily through the classroom as 13 years olds

fidgeted and squirmed before their peers.

Shakespeare's words, meant to be felt, to be projected

over an enthusiastic audience from a grand stage,

fell like drops from a leaky faucet

onto the stained carpet below.

After each hurried, nervous presentation,

the teacher clapped enthusiastically.

Soon I was up. 

I had practiced my poem exactly twice

before becoming frustrated and declaring it dumb.

I took a breath and searched my brain for the words.

To my surprise, they came.

Almost subconciously, I spoke.

I was like a girl possessed, 

Every word, every nuance, every pause

came without my help.

"You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes,"

I concluded, the shock wearing off.

"A second one for extra credit?" the teacher prompted.

I looked around the room, and remembering the most popular sonnet,

chosen by a majority of the class, began:

"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?"

As I returned to my seat I knew

I wanted nothing more than to recite again.

 

III.

Once again it was my mother who brought poetry to me.

This time in the form of a thick, intimidating book.

A real anthology, a grown up one.

I felt the weight of the book in my hands.

It was heavy with the centuries of poetry it held.

It came with me to school during the poetry unit.

And then in my carry-on when all else had been packed up and sent to the new house.

It resided for a long time next to my pillow.

It was solace in sleepless nights, 

While I strained my eyes to discern words under a dim flashlight.

The corners are folded over.

There are notes in the margins.

There is here a sense of home that I so rarely find elsewhere.

 

IV.

"Tell us a secret, something you've never told anyone else."

He looked up at me over his glasses with wide, unblinking eyes.

I took another sip of my drink and looked out over the water.

"I've told you everything. You all know me too well."

We were seventeen, life was moving too fast,

but in this moment, we were here, suspended in time,

if only for a while.

"Poetry," I said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked.

"I'm into poetry. Reading it, writing it, sometimes listening."

"Well then say something poetic for us."

Still looking into the distant horizon, I began,

"The calm, 

Cool face of the river

Asked me for a kiss"

There was no sound but the water crashing on the shore below us.

We hung for a moment, suspended in time.

We were here, if only for a moment.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

Comments

Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.
 

 

If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741