Pretend You're Good At Poetry

Three poems I wrote. I'm not a poet. We'll see how this goes. 🫣

Hi, it’s me.

I don’t have much to say today. It’s been an exhausting couple of years for my family, and the stress of this election season has been a little extra as the kids say.

Without much fanfare, I’d like to share a few poems I wrote.

Poetry is not normally my thing. Don’t tell my kids this, but the only time I ever cheated at school was when I paid someone to write an essay for me because the assignment was to interpret a poem I didn’t understand. That is the level of panic I’ve always felt about the mystery of poetry.

And then I met my husband, who loves this poem by William Carlos Williams. Before we were married, he recited it to me with just the right amount of playful drama that my already-swooned heart was swooned some more. And through various writer friends, I’ve been introduced to the poetry of Ross Gay, Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, Mary Oliver, and others.

Not only am I less fearful of poetry these days, but I occasionally wax poetic myself.

Our mighty backyard birch tree.

Amanda B. Hinton

is among only a few people in this world who understand the love I have for my backyard birch, and for the grove of pine trees next to my family’s lakeside cabin growing up, and for the aspens I hugged in Utah three years ago. I wrote this poem for her last year.

Tree Prayers

See here
In my yard
The elder birch who listens
To the wind
To the waves
To the whispers you send

Know this
In my heart
The elder birch who speaks
He is peace
He is calm
He is friend of my friend

Feel this
In the space
The elder birch who joins
Me and you
Me and them
Me and all who came before

---

I found this next poem in a box while cleaning out our garage, and I’m just as surprised as you are by its existence. It was handwritten in a lined notebook with scribbles and blank spaces and alternate words tried on—dated twenty-four years ago when I lived in a big house with a bajillion roommates. The handwriting is unmistakably mine, though I don’t remember writing it, nor do I remember the event that inspired it, or why I would have titled it For Stephanie. I remember who Stephanie is—we’re still friends on Facebook—but I don’t recall why this poem was dedicated to her.

I finished it and cleaned it up a little. For your full enjoyment, I recommend reciting it out loud as you read.

For Stephanie

Yesterday I smiled as I sat on the sofa that sits on the porch.
The sun stood in the sky above the neighboring house,
and it warmly wound its way around the hour.

The smile stemmed from the multitude of memories
moving through my mind
surrounding the sofa on which I sat. 

Currently concealed on the very veranda where
Viv vivaciously vowed she would cease her smoking,
it first found its formal home hiding away in Alecia's alluring space.

Some days, Stephanie sat on the sofa
watching The Restless 
while she sniffed and snucked the snot in her nose.

The popped popcorn she popped into her mouth
made mounds of messy morsals
when she missed the mark that was her mouth.

And Alecia was annoyed for allowing 
the eating of snacks that stuck between
the seams of the sofa.

---

This last poem was inspired by a recent Writing In Company session with

Julie Hester

and others on a live Zoom call, though it’s been reworked a bit since then. Julie offers creative and thoughtful prompts for us, and then we spend 8-10 minutes writing. Keep your pen moving, she always says. Some of my best ideas come from these monthly writing sessions.

Kitchen Stories

In this room we fought today,
while seated at the same table
where just yesterday we were laughing.

In this room, we plant a bottle of wine at the center,
like a flag declaring our hopeful treaty,
and talk it out until the bad feelings and liquor have all run dry.

In this room, we dance to the music of our history
while pickling cucumbers we'll eat in our future.

In this room, at the corner of our house but the center of our hearts,
we nourish and feed and fuel our souls,
even as we bump against past and present and the refrigerator door
that cuts the room in half when it's open.

---

One final thing before I leave you today: Bryan reminded me of this song while we drank our morning coffee together. I’ll be listening to it on repeat for awhile to help me stay grounded and present with my family, my community, and the work that’s in front of me.

Last Night of the World, Bruce Cockburn

If this were the last night of the world
What would I do?
What would I do that was different
Unless it was champagne with you?

Thanks for being here. If this were the last night of the world, I’d still be writing. Take care of yourselves this week.

Until next time,

Jen