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.

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