I Am a Poet

Granny had a grey vellum bound, thin volume of "101 Best Loved Poems" printed in the early 1930's.  I found it on her bookshelves Granny was my original 'lending library'.  She had volumes and volumes of books and allowed us grandchildren to borrow them to take home.   I borrowed that book of poems over and over again.  I read Walt Whitman and John Greenleaf Whittier and Robert Lowell, Edgar Allen Poe, Edgar A. Guest...I loved reading those poems and often kept the book for a month or more, copying out my favorites to read through again and again.

When I was 13 or 14, I had an English teacher who was a true mentor and birthed in me the first real inspiration I'd ever had.  Lynn Smith Campbell taught the junior high English classes.  One quarter of that years must have been writing and composition.  It was this class that sparked my inner writer.

Her approach in teaching our class was unique.  She played modern day music albums by John Denver, Carly Simon, Carol King, Joni Mitchell...Those are the ones I best remember but there were others I'm sure and without a doubt there was more to it than what I recall at this long away place in the future.  But I do recall the music and the artists some of whom I have considered long time favorites ever since. Not only did we learn to truly listen to the music and appreciate how the tune often helped carry the lyrics, but we also learned to listen to the words and hear it as the poetry it was.

Then one day she suggested we each try our hand at writing poetry.  I don't recall anyone groaning and moaning about it either, not even the boys.  Everyone tackled the lesson with eagerness.

I can still recall my first poem, word for word:

Who am I?

Am I more than a face and a name?

I turn and see

A million mirrored images

Asking just the same.

(Ironic, isn't it?  13 to 66, here I am asking the same question still...With the added bonus that I do, as it turns out, know who I am but just have needed to exercise memory to find myself once more.)

What Ms. Campbell taught me in that year inspired me to write, a habit/hobby I've kept through most of the years thereafter.   It was she who asked us to start journaling.  Unlike a high school teacher who had us keep journals then took them home to read and then grade them (seriously...I can't even imagine how she got away with that!), Ms. Campbell didn't 'grade' us on our thoughts or feelings.  It was meant to teach us how to communicate and express ourselves through writing and to be comfortable in addressing difficult feelings in what was often a very therapeutic way.  Not bad for a bunch of angst and hormone filled newly teen kids!

I've mentioned often that journaling was something that carried me through many a dark time and delivered me safely out on the other side in those days when I questioned everything, including whether or not God existed, or who (including God) knew I existed.  And Lynn Campbell gave me that ability and gift.  Thank you very much!

But it was poetry that became my truly authentic voice.  From that first poem, I wrote poetry for years upon years.  Into my poetry, I poured my hurts, my lostness, my needs, my dreams.  

I had reason to be cautious about exposing too much of myself in my journal, having been dealt the deadly blow of having my notebook searched out no matter how carefully and deeply hidden it was and then hearing the contents repeated word for word to me at the dinner table.  I was often ridiculed or punished for that. I found carrying it with me to school and Granny's when we were allowed to visit was a better way to 'hide' it.  

But no one thought the poetry I wrote was of interest.  It was believed to be amateur at best, pretentious and not worthwhile.  So, the family members who insisted on invading my privacy discounted their value.   I found myself in the same predicament when I married the first time.  The poetry I wrote was largely ignored.  The journals were invaded time and again. 

And so it was that poetry became my 'voice', not just the writer's voice which is unique to each writer, but the voice of a woman who had to hide, hold back, and choke down, feelings big and small for too many years.

When I left my first husband, I stopped writing poetry as often.  And when I met and became involved with John, I had no need of poetry any longer.  I didn't need to hide.  Unpracticed as I was in speaking up, in acknowledging anger and hurt, I knew instinctively that I'd finally found a safe place.  With time, lots of time, and an even greater amount of practice, I became able to physically voice my true feelings.

Unlike my journals, which I destroyed over time, I kept my poetry.  At least the ones I considered the 'best'.  I copied them down in two or three small notebooks, carefully taking time to go through all the journals before I destroyed them and find them. Then I put the notebooks away.   

I found them recently and read through each one.  I can't say much for them except that they are full of loneliness, pain and the desire to be loved.  Perhaps I really should let them go the way of the journals of the past...

Though I set poetry aside, I have had the odd moment of birthing a poem here and there.  I recall one written on the way to church one morning about what the trees in the swamp reveal in the winter as opposed to their invincible appearance in summer.  I wrote one for Josie one afternoon as I was writing her a letter, about a strange bird I heard singing in the cold autumn air.   But mostly, no.  Poems nowadays are a rare occurrence.

This summer...This pivotal, revelatory summer I've just been through, I was driving home along a well-loved backroad and passed a home I've passed a thousand times over the past 27 years.  And word by word, a poem dropped into my mind.  I was stunned.  It had been so long since I'd heard that voice, since I'd felt that inspiration.  I was shocked not only by the sudden dropping of the words into my mind but also that I still recognized the voice that gave those words to me.

When I got home, I hurried to grab pen and paper and capture it.  As I wrote, I felt another part of my personal puzzle fall back into place.  I have missed that part of my voice.  I have missed being a poet.

Perhaps I don't need to use poetry to hide or shelter behind, anymore.  But perhaps poetry can once more be a part of my life?  I don't know.  Perhaps I am still a poet, after all.