My Creative Writing class wrapped up on Monday. We had a good final discussion before they handed in their portfolios. There were some impressive writers in that group, and I have felt very fortunate all term to have had them share their work with me. One or two of them will publish, maybe more!One of the things we talked about was which unit had been the most difficult, and which had been easiest for them. It was unanimous: poetry was the easiest for them, and play writing was most difficult. I was caught a little off-guard by this because – for me – poetry is always the hardest. I am always so afraid of sounding like a soap opera, full of melodrama and angst; tying words together that ultimately have no meaning, though they look real purty on the paper (hyuck hyuck).
As always, my students inspired me. Their willingness to reveal inner thoughts and lay emotions down on paper for others to read – that takes great courage. So I got over myself for a moment and worked on a poem I had puked out a few months ago. I’m not sure if it’s finished yet, but here it is none the less:
The Acrid Taste of Anger
God spreads out before me a bounty
of summer fruits, thick with juice and bursting from their skins;
of autumn’s harvest, heavy with gourds and bursting with colors;
but all I taste is bitterness of memory, like heated copper in my mouth.
no washing it away with wine, or water, or tears.
no drowning it in sweetness, or salt.
As winter lays a blanket
over and around the feast
covering it until a new, spring sun coaxes blossoms into being, into shape
I welcome the rest, the respite.
I’d rather starve and die
from trying to swallow down this anger
than to force myself to feast on what I can not taste.
It’s a work in progress. Nuff said.