My Book of Poetry
There’s a notebook of poems I wrote when I was seven, which, to my eternal embarrassment, my dad insists on reading to anyone I bring home when I visit. The poems rhyme. They’re filled with speaking animals and even stranger humans. Surreal little rhymes about popular culture, my family, and my life as a struggling seven-year-old. They have colorful drawings.
“Oh, no, Dad. Please don't,” I say. We were having a good time, talking and laughing and drinking coffee, why did he have to ruin everything with the stupid notebook?
But when I hear him proudly read the words of the young poet I can recall the naïve expressions of an uncorrupted mind and the pleasing simplicity of a life without metaphors, and I know that no matter what I write in the future, I had already passed my prime by the time I was eight.
12 comments:
I think you're still on the way up in your writing career as long as you believe that anything is possible, as long as you sit down to put pen to paper (or fingers to keys!) in the belief that anything can happen, expecting to be surprised. Once you allow the world to convince you otherwise, you are on the way down - unless, of course, you choose to start believing again.
That's cute. I find it to be a compliment that your dad does that.
However, I'm so glad I never kept a notebook like that.
Thanks, Simon. What I meant was that even if I do succeed in writing, I am now and forever corrupted by adult life. But maybe I'm romanticizing my childhood with the belief that those poems were not influenced by others and by popular culture as experienced by a seven-year-old. Also, maybe The Truth is still out there for me to discover. Maybe I'm just going through a process that has started when I was seven and will continue forever.
Durante, it is probably better that he shows that notebook rather than my teenage photo album.
I find that very sweet and beautiful, but, yeah, parents can do that and make one feel so embarrassed!
I passed my prime when I was 5, I was a talented artist, really, and I was the coolest 5 year old around and then it all went downhill, all the chocolate and hedonistic trips to disney world, you know, too much too soon is never a good thing.
I love the picture by the way.
Sebastien, everything was too easy. Your parents should have known you were an artist and that you should have suffered as such. By going to Disney World you lost touch with the pain that would have made you a master. I don't remember Gauguin ever spinning in a tea cup. You should have asked your parents to go to Tahiti instead. And you should have cut your ear, damn it.
Buddy is very photogenic. (I did guide him, though. I told him to express the love/hate relationship he has with his toy).
Last time my Mom cam to visit she brought some of my grade school essays. Reading them was profoundly funny, embarrassing and sad. IT reminded me of my depth of feeling in childhood and loss of innocence.
Janine, that's what I'm saying. I wasn't just romanticizing my past, but actually thinking life has made me and my writings more shallow, more eager to please; less true.
Haha, the spinning tea cups, seriously, it's where it all went wrong. If only they had shown me how to use a knife properly (for self inflicted wounds that would help signal my artistic genius). The shame of it all...
My parents think they are sooooooo funny when they bring up OLD stories in front of people!
Then when I'm walking away with people laughing in my face they want me to stay and hear more! Cor Blimey!
Funny thing is, when I'm a father I'll probably do the same thing...
My grandfather HAS to tell the story about my mom buying my first bra to EVERY person he ever meets. I just want to leave the room or close my eyes until it's over...(and yet at least I know I come by my compulsions naturally...)
Jill, sounds like a good story. Although it might be weird that there are people out there who, for them, the only thing they know about you is your first bra story.
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