(Originally published January 16, 2007)
As many of you know, I’m taking a poetry class this semester. It was largely a matter of finding a creative writing course that fit my schedule. But I cannot deny my own masochistic tendencies. What’s the fun in taking a 100-level class, if you don’t writhe and squirm three hours a week?
My first poem being due today, last night was a struggle. I attempted to shirk seriousness by starting off like this:
Simon and Garfunkle…
Pull up your damn pants.
You ain’t no piggy bank.
Cover up that rhinestone thong.
Give them low-rise jeans a yank.
But I’m not confident enough to finish either of those yet, let alone turn them in for a grade and peer review. Here’s what I settled on for my first poem, first draft:
Running Away (January 17)
The cold drizzle
might as well be flower
petals falling, lining our path.
My red sweater
might as well be brightest
white draping, flowing,
trailing yards behind.
Preacher shakes your hand,
takes a glistening wad of gum from his mouth,
places it carefully on the table,
says let’s get started.
Standing in the parlor,
he asks will you
say I do?
The table is clean.
He’s chewing again.
With gum snapping, he teases,
“Take her to White Castle.”
But what I hear is
“For the rest of your lives, laugh.”
As you can imagine, that’s a pretty personal stab at poetry. I’m not sure I care to know what anyone thinks of it yet. But feel free to talk amongst yourselves in the comments.