Among many things, I’ve never considered myself a poet. A novelist, sure, but never anyone’s poet. Poetry to me is:

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`’Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door –
Only this, and nothing more.’

(Which btw happens to be the opening stanza from one of my favorite Edgar Allan Poe poems…)

The reason this comes up is because I take a creative writing class which just to my luck turned out to be  class which studies poetry as the bulk of the curriculum. We’re required to write 5 poems throughout the semester and one short story (one of which I can’t wait to find out the prompt for) now, this would be considered an easy A for the poetry literate.

(I shall save my true thoughts on poetry and how I got suckered for a later post)

It wasn’t until yesterday I dreaded the thought of sitting down and actually writing something meaningful, and I went through about 6 different styles before I actually settled on one that I actually liked enough to submit to our weekly workshop. What I considered to be complete trash actually found favor with my instructor, so much favor in fact that she was speechless for about the first three minutes before she burst out: “A love poem! Ha! A poem this good has to be the best. You’ve made me proud.”

Now, I don’t know if she was just pulling my leg, but it did make me feel good as I sat and basked in the jealous stares of my classmates. Because for the first time in 10 weeks had someone presented something that the teacher actually said she was proud of and besides from a few form corrections couldn’t think of a better way to improve it.

Bleh. I swear it’s nothing special. In fact, if anything I’m likely to be a one poem wonder.  So, without further ado I’m going to share it with you.

 

 

Imprint

First, a rejection

An itch

There was joy behind the pitch:

“It’s lucky!” said she

When it was tossed to me.

How worn, dull and greying!

Yet, a beauty that rests

Not upon the exterior, but within

The heart.

How cheap, weak and failing!

Yet, what the eyes behold

The mind is blind to see

Such an invaluable expression

Of love.

It now sinks deeper

Deeper still

Like a heated rod

Pressed against uneasy

Flesh, until its brand is permanent.

However, not upon finger

Nor skin

Has it done the most carving

But o’er the muscle that beats

For her love.