Pretty pretty poems

I used to write a lot of poetry; mostly in my journals and diaries. Not to worry, I don't plan on subjecting anyone in this journal. I don't even remember any of them; only snippets, like this one, the last line from a haiku about Autumn leaves:

Stand amid dancers.

Five syllables, boo-yah. I was soooo proud of that poem. And it was sooooo seventh grade. :)

I've had poetry on my mind a lot lately because it seems to be Right Here in front of my face. Of course, I've reacquainted myself with sweet old Mother Goose, and I think I have my own Mother to thank for the illustrated board-book version that AJ LOVES WITH ALL HIS HEART. We read it about a katrillion times a week. I have re-memorized many a stanza that I once knew as a child, most especially, the Three Little Kittens who lost their mittens. That is his Favorite, bar none. If only he knew the word "squeeeeeee!," he would say it the moment he reached that rhyme. (It was always one of my favorites, too.)

Mee-ow, Mee-ow, Mee-ow. No, you shall have no pie.

A few weeks ago I was cleaning out a file cabinet in the basement and found some leftover college papers, specifically, an assignment from English 205/Poetry. In that class, we read a book of Rita Dove's work, and I LOVED it. She wrote so gorgeously (there's how you know I'm NOT actually a poet -- gorgeously??), and every single word had meaning. I learned in that class how to really read poetry, and that it took more than one reading to really get it. And that, reading even MORE times would yield even MORE amazing, symbolic insights. I decided I want to go back and read more of her. I found this interview from a while back, where she says: "I carry a notebook with me everywhere. I write down lines that come to me... words that sound good...overheard conversation...anything that takes me out of daily existence. Then some of those jottings make it onto paper. I keep the drafts of each poem in color-coded folders... I don't want to think about the poems in terms of themes... I just say, "This feels green..." Don't you love that? I wish I had a career where I could just "feel green" and file things there. In "Weathering Out," she begins:

She liked mornings the best--Thomas gone
to look for work, her coffee flushed with milk,

outside autumn trees blowsy and dripping.

I love the word "blowsy."

Last week on "All Things Considered," they did this wonderful story on our national Poet Laureate, Ted Kooser. I had forgotten, in my everyday working (read: boring details) existence, that we even HAVE a Poet Laureate. But I'm fascinated by this guy. He's regular and normal -- he was some sort of business man for 30 years or something. An insurance underwriter, I think. Studied poetry in grad school, but you know, had to feed the family. Wrote poems in the early morning, while drinking his coffee. In his recliner. It's so breadbasket American and thoughtful, and grandpa-like. I love his "So This Is Nebraska." An excerpt:

You feel like that; you feel like letting
your tires go flat, like letting the mice
build a nest in your muffler, like being
no more than a truck in the weeds,

clucking with chickens or sticky with honey
or holding a skinny old man in your lap
while he watches the road, waiting
for someone to wave to.

I'm reminded of something I read once about writing: That every piece of writing you see in the world, down to the indicia on your postage-paid envelope, was written by someone. "Affix Stamp Here" is mightily different from "To Help Defray our Costs, Please Use a Stamp," and both were written by someone. They're both worthy of having been written. Good to remember that when what I write seems nonessential or mundane. Kinda like this post will be if I don't find a point soon.... :)

That's it, really... poetry's neat. It makes the more ordinary details of life, like lost mittens and coffee with milk and rusted-out cars on the side of the road, seem like little diamonds to be marveled at.