“I want them to water ski across the surface of a poem…

but all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.”

-Billy Collins

He stands across from me and our eyes are caught in a stare off that obstructs all outside distractions. We are in a old Western movie, hands hovering over the pistols hitched onto our belts as the wind whistles and tumbleweeds blow past us. The atmosphere is tense, I see him reach for his gun and quickly move for my own to—BAM!

I am hit. I fall to my knees, clutching my wound, as he fades into the horizon.

Yet another battle lost to Poetry! My long time enemy has made his way into my AP literature class, spewing stanza after stanza of befuddling words that leave me in a helpless frenzy. He cloaks the truth with thou’s, thy’s and dost’s

andtorments

words. He

chops t h em

up b eyond

recognition.

Words are my friends; literature is my solace. And yet, Poetry and I remain strangers. Now, in this classroom, we are thrust into confrontation.

My mom always says there are two responses to things we don’t understand. One is rejection; we make it out to be an outcast and adopt an air of feigned indifference. The other is exploration, with a desire to uncover that compels scientists and deep sea scuba divers to jump into the unknown.

I want to be the latter. I want Poetry to run freely and meaning to stream off the page and fill the nooks and crannies of my mind. Discontent with mere surface knowledge, I want to delve into the deep caverns of language. But to do that, I must change my course of action and untie him from his chair. Instead, I am wading out into a pool without knowing how to swim, praying not to sink.

We don’t understand things that are different from us. Poetry is subtle. I am straightforward. Poetry whispers. I exclaim. Poetry keeps to himself lest someone seeks him out. I find peace on the stage, in front of a crowd. He never has definite answers and it was the search for such answers that compelled me to beat him like a pinata in hopes that meaning would fall out like candy.

Essay turned in and the unit coming to an end, Poetry and I part ways. Farewell, Poetry! Until we meet again! In the meantime, I will have to take water ski lessons.