I have a clear memory of six years old, sitting cross-legged on the floor in my classroom, cutting out the pieces to the acrostic poem I had written a few days before. There was a precision to my gluing, a desire to get the lines exactly right. I forgot about it for years, let the memory drift to the back corners of my brain. This poem, I suppose, is the first evidence I have of poetry in my life.<\/p>\n
Here the the actual text from the poem\u00a0I wrote to my mom in second grade:<\/p>\n
I<\/strong>magining is great!<\/em><\/p>\n L<\/strong>adies are good.<\/em> Y<\/strong>arn is fun!<\/em> have a M<\/strong>arry day!<\/em> XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX From there, my love of poetry progressed: cataloged in a Mother\u2019s Day poem I wrote in fifth grade, typed up in Comic Sans, used the wrong your\/you’re and seventh grade, walking through the concrete hallways reciting \u201cAnnabel Lee\u201d by Edgar Allan Poe from memory. I continued to dabble in poetry throughout high school, writing about this and that. In the margins of my calculus notes there are dashes of phrases, half-written poems that someday I\u2019d get back to.<\/p>\n It\u2019s important to study literature, because it gives a deeper insight to meanings. Analyzing English gives perspective of the surrounding world, a way to perceive emotions in a different way. In turn, poetry is an extension of this. It falls into the gap, between the universal and the personal. Meaning shifts from person to person, experience to experience, but there\u2019s nearly always something someone can connect to.<\/p>\n For me, poetry is a way to express emotions. I let it center around the words I never say, the memories that come back, from time to time. Poetry is a creative way to capture an experience\u00a0and I cannot stress how important I think that is.<\/p>\n So write. Write bad poetry, good poetry. Things that (don\u2019t) rhyme, things with rhythm. Make up a story, make up an experience. Practice enjambment, practice and fail and succeed and know that it\u2019s okay. Let yourself relive that memory when it comes back. Write it down so it\u2019s raw and real and important, because it matters.<\/p>\n Here is an example of a poem I wrote more recently, as a way to show that my poetry has at least slightly improved since second grade:<\/p>\n School Picture Day, 2002<\/strong><\/p>\n Six-year-old me didn\u2019t yet have the world on her shoulders, I ate kiwis until my mouth puckered shut and I\u2019d stretch my lips because the future was undefined, for six-year-old me.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I have a clear memory of six years old, sitting cross-legged on the floor in my classroom, cutting out the pieces to the acrostic poem I had written a few days before. There was a precision to my gluing, a … Continue reading
\nO<\/strong>bserve<\/em>
\nV<\/strong>iolence<\/em>
\nE<\/strong>asy<\/em><\/p>\n
\nO<\/strong>bject are great!<\/em>
\nU<\/strong>nbelievable
\n<\/em><\/p>\n
\nO<\/strong>utlook<\/em>
\nM<\/strong>ind<\/em><\/p>\n
\nLOVE,
\nTALENA<\/p>\n
\n
\n
\nbut she had an atlas brain. Curly red hair forming ringlets
\naround an unfreckled face. Back when tears were easy to spring
\nto the surface and I still had an underbite smile. Career option:
\nastronaut princess and Grandma taught me cross-stitch.
\nThe Magic Tree House <\/i>series, scraped knees, Girl Scout
\nuniform, and I didn\u2019t know what headache meant. Tracing
\nthe alphabet over and over on sunny days and I could see the purple
\nslide through the chain-link fence and windows.<\/p>\n
\ninto a grin, stand in line waiting to go into class with a heavy
\nmetal song stuck in my head because Dad played his
\nmusic loud and would sing with the windows rolled down,
\nelbow resting against the door, hand hitting roof
\nedge with every guitar strum. Stand in line in a dark green
\nvelvet dress tucking pistachio shells into its lace trim<\/p>\n