A Poem Promised and (Finally!) Delivered
This is the follow-up to an earlier post about a requested poem for all you curious commenters. It took some time to track it down. A warning: It has nothing to do with running.
Before reading on, allow me to apply a little context to what made 36 carefully arranged words so controversial back in the day. The course was Advanced Composition. I was one of three juniors in the senior-level class and the only one lacking the prerequisite, Basic Composition. So, I came to the class without proper credentials or a prior history.
To kick off a nine-week poetry section, the teacher gave us our first homework assignment: write a poem in any style and on any topic – except, she said, love or death. In a very condescending tone she said “you young people” do not truly understand those concepts and she was tired of reading tripe suggesting we did. Instead, she intoned, just write about something we know.
This led classmates like one cheerleader I knew to go home and craft the Dada-inspired “I Had a Cat.”
See what I was up against?
The night of the assignment, I sat on my twin bed and angrily penned a poem that incorporated both love and death. It took several sheets of college-ruled notebook paper till I got it right: the point where the “they” in the poem overtakes the “I” (i.e., people honestly yet erroneously deciding what’s in someone’s best interest) ... and when I’d finally realized I’d repeatedly misspelled mementos. Now, keep in mind, I was only 16. And what I knew was only that Mrs. Q needed to be taught a lesson.
The next class, my poem was on the board and at the start of class I was asked to explain it. I clammed up, stuttered and then listened as the teacher launched into a diatribe on plagiarism. I honestly don’t remember her words because my face felt ready to explode. The poem stayed up on the board the remainder of the day, with each class given the same warning about copying from other works.
I should have asked her to produce the original, since I knew she couldn’t. So maybe I deserved the F, not for my work but for failing to defend myself. Mrs. Q, in the meantime, later realized her mistake as more poems were produced. She eventually apologized to me privately in a comment on another assignment.
Before reading on, allow me to apply a little context to what made 36 carefully arranged words so controversial back in the day. The course was Advanced Composition. I was one of three juniors in the senior-level class and the only one lacking the prerequisite, Basic Composition. So, I came to the class without proper credentials or a prior history.
To kick off a nine-week poetry section, the teacher gave us our first homework assignment: write a poem in any style and on any topic – except, she said, love or death. In a very condescending tone she said “you young people” do not truly understand those concepts and she was tired of reading tripe suggesting we did. Instead, she intoned, just write about something we know.
This led classmates like one cheerleader I knew to go home and craft the Dada-inspired “I Had a Cat.”
I had a cat
He was fat
He got sick
Now he’s skinny.
See what I was up against?
The night of the assignment, I sat on my twin bed and angrily penned a poem that incorporated both love and death. It took several sheets of college-ruled notebook paper till I got it right: the point where the “they” in the poem overtakes the “I” (i.e., people honestly yet erroneously deciding what’s in someone’s best interest) ... and when I’d finally realized I’d repeatedly misspelled mementos. Now, keep in mind, I was only 16. And what I knew was only that Mrs. Q needed to be taught a lesson.
"A Newlywidow”
When I found out,
I wasn’t left alone
like I had wanted.
When I found out,
they didn’t leave his mementos
like I had wanted.
When they found out,
I needed adjustments
like they had wanted.
The next class, my poem was on the board and at the start of class I was asked to explain it. I clammed up, stuttered and then listened as the teacher launched into a diatribe on plagiarism. I honestly don’t remember her words because my face felt ready to explode. The poem stayed up on the board the remainder of the day, with each class given the same warning about copying from other works.
I should have asked her to produce the original, since I knew she couldn’t. So maybe I deserved the F, not for my work but for failing to defend myself. Mrs. Q, in the meantime, later realized her mistake as more poems were produced. She eventually apologized to me privately in a comment on another assignment.
This piece is anticlimatic, I know. It's a just a simple poem, but one I remain proud of producing as a teenager. I've held on to it all these years to remind me to aim high even if some people seem bent on making you feel small.
