I developed an interest in poetry at an early age. I think I was in the fifth grade.
Miniver Cheevey, child of scorn,
Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born,
And he had reasons.
I looked forward to Thursdays, when each of us could stand at the head of the class and read a poem. I would spend the entire week going through my father’s library looking for just the perfect work to present to the teacher and my fellow students.
Fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
Barrel house kings with feet unstable
Sagged and reeled and pounded on the table
Pounded on the table
Beat an empty barrel with the handle of a broom
Hard as they were able
Boom Boom Boom
I never tried my hand at creating a poem back then. Perhaps I was aware of my limitations at the age of eleven, having developed an appreciation for the greats – Poe, Blake, Lindsay, Sandburg, Housman, Robinson. Perhaps someday, I thought, I’ll be able to write poetry.
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God’s ways to man.
Ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think.
As with many interests, this one led to further curiosities and then to further learning. “Who was Milton?” “What happened at Gettysburg?” “Where is the Congo?” “Who were the Medicis?”
Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under and let me work –
I am the grass; I cover all.
My inspiration came to an end when my teacher, Miss Green, informed me that my poetry selections for Thursdays’ readings had been inappropriate. I was disheartened. She suggested that I try to present something more positive, something that would give cheer.
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree. – Joyce Kilmer
Of course it would have been inappropriate for me to point out that Joyce Kilmer was a homosexual mormon named Alfred. My mother told me that. I didn’t mention it to Miss Green.
Okay, I thought. I’ll give it a try. Happy poems, positive stuff from this point forward. Christ it was going to be a difficult assignment.
A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot!
Rose plot,
Fringed pool,
Fern’d grot—
The veriest school
Of peace; and yet the fool
Contends that God is not—
Not God! in gardens! When the eve is cool?
Nay, but I have a sign;
‘Tis very sure God walks in mine.
Miss Green approved. I never read another poem in class after that.
Miniver Cheevy, born too late,
Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Miniver coughed, and called it fate,
And kept on drinking.
