Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Hiding from the embarrassment

Tonight I searched my house for a tree house blueprint that I wanted to use in a lesson. I never found it, but I did find a folder of high school poetry and a few college papers. Before looking inside, I played with the idea of posting some of it on this little blog for a good laugh. Then I read them. *my cheeks are warming as I cough and look for the quickest escape* Wow, I will never be a poet. Every one is about sunshine, smiles and L O V E... Ick!

My embarrassment is not even dated. It is simply ten or so sheets of lined paper stapled down one side and labeled Poetry Folder English II, 1st Period. So that would be my sophomore year. One of the requirements to accompany the set number of haiku, limericks, couplets and quatrains was that each poem had to be illustrated. If the words themselves were not enough to kill me, my hand drawn stick figures definitely finished me off. My grade you ask? 98 our of 100 because I was missing two illustrations. Did my teacher even read this trash??

This in itself should be enough to send you screaming from the room. Balloons and highlighter yellow viney things?

Are you sufficiently curious? I covered each season with a haiku. I sit here laughing and find that I can't possibly post any of it. Here is what one of the pages looked like.

<-Funny tree with falling leaves.

<-A baby for a poem that ends with, "So down from the ledge." What?
<-A swimming pool with a little girl with pigtails.
<-The kite that was blown away by the wind.
All of it is useless drivel.

This is the only poem out of twenty that has potential, but don't worry, I'm not giving up fiction for poetry. I've seen enough of my poetry to teach me to try something else.

Repentance
Darkness is all that I see.
Depression and shame is all that I feel.
I have need of help beyond my own.
For I cannot forget the wrong I've done.
I see a light far in front of me, in my mind's eye.
I kneel in prayer, my heavy burden lifting.
Healing is this warmth inside, with nothing
left to hide from the forgiving One on high.

The sad thing is, this reminds me of a song and I wonder if I cheated and changed just a few words from a church CD. I must be a horrible person. Maybe I only listened to that song and then wrote the poem after its influence? It was too many years ago to be sure. 

The college stuff was better. There was a poem that I have no idea what I was thinking about when I wrote it or what the assignment was. Once again, not dated, but maybe I was thinking about the Martin handcart company? It is possible this was after I married my hubby and traveled to Wyoming with his family to Martin's Cove and Devil's Gate (historic sites for my church.)

My Friend
(Well, the title makes little sense.)
In the distance I see clouds turning gray, as though fed by burning fires below. My heart aches. I know the pain they bring. Too many times along our journey I have seen them gather to cast upon us their ravaging cold, but I choose not to think of that now.

On the horizon I see the sun rising over the plain. Oh, my friend, how long it has been since I last felt thy golden fingers caress my frozen cheeks. I have longed to feel the dusty warmth of thy breath upon my frosted hair. Why have you been gone for so long? The purple flowers and grasses that once filled this barren land have all fallen pray to winter's hand. I wanted to see them on our journey, but we started later than we should. I hoped to pick them by the armful. I think the pink ones would have looked lovely in Mamma's amber hair. How beautiful they would have been.

The darkened clouds that once rolled in the blackening distance are now looming overhead. The cold--so cold--pierces through my threadbare coat and chases away the warmth of my summer dream. My feet, now wrapped in Mamma's favorite dress, ache as they crunch through winter's frozen blanket. Oh, if only they could feel the warmth of running bare foot through the moistened grass that once surrounded our foreign home. But for now, the flowers printed on Mamma's dress are the only warmth they know.

It is late and the little spark of our evening fire struggles and fights to shine as its icy enemy descends upon its weakening flame. It is quiet except for the howling of the wretched wind. The wind hides the sobs of those within our camp that have lost those they love. I have lost, but I choose not to think of that now.

As I close my eyes, I see the last of our fire's strength give way to our frozen enemy. Oh, my friend, when will you return and bring me flowers for Mamma's hair?
The last paper I actually really like. It is rough, but has potential. More importantly, reading it reminded me of what the assignment was and I think I did a great job on that part. However, it is rather long and so will wait for tomorrow. :)

5 comments:

  1. Ha! I love the poetry book. A lot different from mine at the same age (mine had cryptic drawings of drug paraphernalia and razor blades - nice). But I really like the "My Friend" piece. It has some really great lines in it.

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  2. Love the poetry book and I'm thankful I never had to do a book of any sort!

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  3. Well I think it's a fab poetry book! When forced to do one my teacher told the parents she thought I was unique because I may have written a poem about *cough* words pouring out of my shoes *cough*. In my defence, I was going for surrealism...She told my folks I was disturbingly original... For some reason I feel a swell of pride when I think about that LOL

    Also, the My Friend piece is goooood! :~D

    Oh, I have this sort of award over at my place for ya' (if it pleases you) because you're just cool like that :~) You'll see what I mean when you read the post...

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  4. I took a Creative Writing class in high school, and my cheeks are warm just remembering the drivel I wrote, and I don't even have it in front of me (I'm sure it met its demise in a dumpster somewhere many years ago). I remember one of the poems was called "These Things I Have Hated." Wow - that doesn't sound anything like me (thank goodness!)

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  5. I have more than my share of embarrassing writings and not all of it is from when I was a kid. Just last year I wrote a scene that I NEVER should have tried.

    I think every good writer has folders like yours. It builds character! :)

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