Friday, May 17, 2019

Occasional Poetry

In college, I took a few creative nonfiction writing classes. At one point I attempted a poem based on a memory, and the professor basically told me, "This is...not actually a poem."

I'm no poet.

On the other hand, I also remember a student I had several years ago who throughout the year would come up to me with a book and say, "Mrs. Gassaway, I'm not a reader, but this book is fantastic!" or "You know I don't like to read, but this one is really good!" Eventually I pointed out to him that for someone who really didn't like to read, he sure loved almost every book he read.

Every year or so, I have a compulsion to write a poem. And I do. And I share it publicly on here. Are they art? Are they "real" poetry? Who cares?

Here's my latest, which references "Those Winter Sundays" by Robert Hayden.

My mom
probably didn't know the poem
about "love's austere and lonely offices"--

building the fire,
blacking the boots--

but she told me once
that my dad always got up first
so he could

start the furnace,
brew the coffee--

I like to remember them, fifty years married and more
Not so austere,
Never lonely.


Please share your thoughts. Comments are almost as sweet as chocolate!