Poetry

On my six-and-a-half-year journey of earning my B.A. in English I discovered something that laid within my inner soul, poetry. When achieving your degree in English you have to choose a concentration; poetry/fiction, linguistics or literature. I thought that poetry would be easier and much quicker than the other two. What I did not take into consideration was that my peers would be judging my creativity. Those thoughts that bring tears to your eyes or enrage you so much would be torn a part, critiqued and trashed. I had to learn not to let it bother me, but how can you do that? One of my very first poems composed was about my Grandmother in my beginning poetry class, my teacher raved about it saying that it was “publishable”. The next quarter in my advanced poetry writing class I re-submitted it so I could have my Professor and famed poet Pete Fairchild critque it. It did not go as planned with my classes take on the poem, some could not imagine what I was writing about and thought a lot of it didn’t make sense. After my tough critique I cried in the hallway. Before our next class metting Professor Fairchild pulled me into the hallway and said he re-read it and understood the meaning and deep emotion that lay within my memory of Grandmother. Needless to say, I did not make any of the revisions my peers gave as suggestions, and how could I? I could not take away the emotion and the hours of crying just to get the words on the screen as I sat on my purple down comforter. They are the simple memories I cherish of my Grandmother. For the first time EVER, I am going to post a poem, I never share any of my deep emotions with anyone except for family and those ten college students that critiqued me over three poetry classes.

My Golden ‘M’

Christmas Eve 2000,
My last favorable memory with you.
We had our usual fare—
honey ham with spicy hot mustard, potato salad,
and my favorite ‘Oreole’ chocolate cake.

Sitting by the fireplace opening the few packages,
treasuring every moment and memories of the past.
I remember you saying,
“do you remember when I made you that doggie sweater?”
I would smile and nod—

Bright, white lights, beeping and deep breathing.
“Is that you Robert?”
“No, its me Grandma”
I slipped back into childhood, attempting to recollect
every story you had once told me.
I couldn’t, my mind turned to jell-o.

Three months and thirty-one days passed since the New Year.
Awakening with crusty sleep in my eyes,
I scanned my room for something familiar.
My eyes focused on your photograph:

A smudged ocean floor
speckled with clownfish eggs.
A single fuchsia carnation
carrying the petals of life.
The bubblegum pink jumpsuit
so soft,
brought me back to your sweet touch.
The sparkle in your eyes
radiant,
like your golden ‘M’ necklace.
The silver hair, not a reminder of growing old
but a lesson on how to age gracefully.
The wine glass full with Chablis
a reminder of your once hourglass figure.

I was stunned, you embraced me that day.
The phone rang. I wept.
I will never hear of that silver doggie
with fluffy, floppy ears ever again.