world poetry day

Today, March 21st, is World Poetry Day. Coincidentally I just rediscovered a stack of poems I wrote in college - they are damp from the basement flooding, and I'm trying to figure out how to dry them. Clothesline, perhaps?

It's interesting to read them now - these little ditties from 18 years in my past - and to discover that I don't hate them. I mean, they aren't very good. But I recognize that young writer and why she wrote. I still get her. I was trying to get over my parents divorce, and I was muddling through a heartfelt, yet crappy, college relationship. Sometimes when you are 20, bad poetry is the best way to work these things out.

At the time, my parent's divorce was the worst thing ever. For months I floated through my days quite unable to feel any ground under my feet, unable to take a sure and confident step in any direction. I took up smoking. I blackmailed my father into a trip to Europe. I picked a bad boyfriend. Etc., etc.

Eventually my life resettled, restabilized, relaxed (though I confess to eventually marrying the crappy boyfriend). I don't how things got better, but I know that they did--because apparently I was able to write the poem below. A recipe for getting through:

The Recipe

Faith returns in spoonfuls.
The sun warms the flesh behind your left ear.
A muscle you didn't know you had relaxes.
The coffee is warm in the morning.
It is still light out after evening tea.
Somebody misses you.
There's a check in the mail.
You treat yourself to chocolate.
You write a small poem.

You rewrite the last poem.
You heat the coffee and boil the sun.
You add twelve hours of daylight,
two secret admirers and a pinch of chocolate.
You stir well with forgetfulness--
the strong brew of belief,
the long draught of confidence,
that the ground will not fall open
beneath your feet. Not again.


Hm. It's kind of nice. A letting in of existing beauties; an active concocting of anything that might help. It's not the worst advice I've ever given myself.

I admit, I'm not feeling very hopeful these days. But there were days in college when I felt blank and hopeless too, and eventually I wrote that poem. So I'll just leave it up here as a little reminder: things get better. We get better.

By the way, Sara has also a nice poem up today, for her son, Henry.