From the mouth of a babe

I don't remember learning that Santa wasn't real, or finding out where babies come from. But I read my first book (Max the Cat) sitting at our dining room table in Tamarac, Florida when I was four or five. I remember reading my first poem to my mom and that it rhymed dove and love. We were in our old blue and white conversion van, driving from our home in Ft. Lauderdale to Tampa to visit the grandparents. My mom told me she loved it, and I was so proud of myself.

I dug through a box of my old diaries and yearbooks yesterday. I found the poem I read to my first boyfriend when he stopped calling, entitled 'Mimes Suck'. What sophisticated imagery!

I'm glad I hadn't thrown away the diaries because, though painfully adolescent and confusing, they're a great resource if I ever want to write from a teenage girl's perspective. *wink*

I also found the lit magazine from my senior year in high school. Before I found it again, all I remembered about this poem was that I'd used the word rape, and I'd wondered if people interpreted that to be an event in my life. (It actually referred to the forceful nature of love, changing us without consent.) A lot was going on at this time- hormones, with my parents' divorce, death in the family, hormones, and the fact that my first love didn't last. No kidding, huh? Here it is, warts and all:

A candle sits there aflame

The wax melts into the form that it came

The fire burns the candle's thread,

A puddle grows by her whose strength has fled.

This flame too hot to let live,

This type flame has never a thing to give.

Curse the match who struck this spark

By the candle who ever bears this mark

Of cold wax which has no shape,

This gray pool is the one sign of rape.

This fire once long wished for

Was late seen not as an escape door.

It should not be wanted so,

For this love flame burns with a hurting blow.

None is in love always

And smoky storms cover love's bright gold rays.

So, new candle, fresh in mind,

Avoid the hot flame which melts all your kind.

In a Zen-writing book "Writing Down the Bones" Natalie Goldberg purports(that's the first time I've used that word) that everybody has to write their quota of junk before they can get to the 'good' stuff. Here's a review that matches my opinion.

What did you do with your old journals and bad poetry? (everybody has some, right?)Was writing a chore, a joy, therapy, a friend, a burden in your formative years?

Check back tomorrow for Osama's weekly book picks.

Hubby had Isaac, our 8 year old laughing over this.
What does a duck army yell when they're fired upon?
Duck!
What does a squirrel army yell when they're fired upon?
Duck!
Sorry.