Poetry II

i

I used to hate poetry.

Number 6 says that “I’m not a huge poetry fan” (Pasternak 2016)

and I believe me.

I used to hate poetry

because I was taught that poetry

is meant to be analyzed.

We took scalpels in our hands

and sliced the verse into

bite sized pieces.

Easy to chew. Easy to swallow whole.

Easy to—

I used to hate

ii

Poetry. 

Grade Three we sit and

read each other’s work.

Desks aligned curriculum signed off

by teachers and force-fed

to students who do not know better

I liked poetry.

Pretty, it sounded. Complex was 

better.

A closet-full books-full pencil shavings lines that wrote

words that meant nothing.

But she said it sounded nice.

I liked hers as well and we shared it

and I liked poetry because it was [italics]poetry[/italics].

Somewhere there were words

and sometimes there were thoughts that,

if met with tiny black patterned notebooks,

made sense but the yearn did not come—

I liked poetry—

iii

I used to hate poetry and then

the fog rolled in.

The margins did not add up and essays were written in 

another’s voice altogether.

It was not poetry. 

It was a seagull’s call from chapter ii but

I did not know which direction to fall

and the words were as sharp as they were written

metaphors soaked in vinegar;

the tang of waste.

Overflow with necessity.

Rations and ratios that ached with 

an unsatisfied longing. 

iv

Seasons change.

Seasons change and the powerful play goes on

Speckled in brilliant—muted colors

Pins in a map that lead to the here and the now.

Tracing steps and x marks the spot

Don’t stop.

Seasons change and I used

to hate poetry. When

necessity did not yet exist and in one ear stayed and 

rotted. Curdled milk.

Too much honey burns your throat.

Take it in small doses with a mug of tea.

Verses now my verse

chest swells and brain buzz 

My Verse.

Don’t swallow the prepackaged pieces

teach and learn, scholar,

to take them with your hands and 

make them your own.

These are precious gems and you can’t afford to lose

you can’t afford to waste a single drop.

Remember the yearn from ages ago.

that little girl

silent and patient.

Now is the time for yelling to the crowded train that you 

Have arrived.

Or wait.

Keep them safe, close to your chest, but not too close to the heart.

Not for safety but to let yourself be flooded

and love every minute of it. 

No longer poetry? Right now—

Step into the old, dirty smock and paint

rainbows of desire and fields of 

mossy green.

Swim in the fog and let it clear your throat

just do not take too long for it will consume you—you know this.

I used to hate poetry.

and number six says that “i’m not a huge fan” 

but I have a size. 38 ballpoint pen

and limitless pages

the cosmos to 

flood with words and 

saliva saturated metaphors.

Chapter v has not been written

so i’ll write it up and down my arms

in replace of what one (i) threw away

and what iii tried to be.

I can hate my own creation

But at least i’ve created