Pink notebook

Earlier this year, I went to my childhood home to clean out my old closet in preparation for my parents' big move. For hours I sorted through dozens of American Girl books, an abundance of craft supplies, and all sorts of Winnie the Pooh realia.

And then I found it.

The spiral notebook with a hot pink cover embellished with Lisa Frank stickers. My 6-year old heart had prized that notebook. And as I read through my childish scribbles, I remembered afresh the thrill I'd felt upon receiving the notebook — a notebook that wasn't for school, and was all mine. I couldn't wait to fill its pages.

And so I wrote. I wrote stories about bunnies and rainbows, and I wrote poetry about the things I held dearest.

In fact, I wrote a surprising amount of poetry. 

It turns out, my little kid self was an unabashed, prolific poet. 

Take, for instance, exhibit A:

Marc my brother is a cute little boy

I like to play with him just like a toy

He has brown hair, and he is so sweet

And he really, really likes to eat.

Some things never change. Marc is still the cutest, sweetest little brother. And he still has brown hair and likes to eat. 

But as Marc grew cuter and more hungry, I grew more self-aware. And at some point — probably the same time I realized my version of "Hakuna Matata" did NOT sound like Whitney Houston — I realized there were much better poets than I. And so I stopped writing poetry, and stuck with literary analysis, instead.

But you know, the older I grow, the more I long to be the bold, unfettered poet I was as a kid. So I've tried, many times, to write a poem. I've mustered my courage, gathered my climbing gear, and prepared to scale Mount Write-a-Poem. But each time I stare at that looming mountain I feel so inadequate, and so I turn and walk away.

But you guys. I finally did it. I scaled the mountain. I wrote a poem. And I'm tempted to hide it away so that no one but me ever reads it, but I know my 6-year old self would share it. Because poems are meant to be shared. And it's the sharing that develops brand spankin' new poets into mature poets. Six-year olds are so much wiser than 28-year olds, aren't they? And so, I give you my very first post-childhood poem:

When I met you, I wondered why you lived in that

Coffin;

Your nearest friend, the Darkness.

But even he couldn’t get past

Your dusty skin.

So he settled, instead, in the cracks between

The toes you wiggled

In your spacious casket,

And he and the Warmth sang you lullabies

To the rhythm of your heartbeat.

I wonder how many nights you listened

To your heart ticking,

Like a rusty clock, and

Stared

At an inky, starless lid

Clamped shut,

Protecting you

From the pain that

Pulses

In the veins of the living.

And I wonder if you meant it

When you told me in muffled tones

Through thick cedar walls

That you’re happy  

Just knowing

That the Sun finger-paints

With fire

Across clean morning skies,

And that you don’t need to

Feel the cold juice

Of a tangerine

Dribbling down your chin,

Because hearing about it

Is sufficient.

And I wonder how you know the difference

Between the sun

And a tangerine.

I wonder if you noticed,

That day I pushed open your lid,

How the light ran ahead of my hands

And licked your face happily,

Pulling your mouth into a smile.

Did you?

Because I think the expansive canopy of blue

Threatened to fall

Through you,

And made you dizzy.

And I think your sharp intake of air

Hurt,

Like needles pricking,

Probing

For veins, searching for

Some sign of life.

And I think the sun pierced your

Sky-blue eyes,

Making your pupils

Ache and

Shrink back

In fear.

And I think the warmth of my hand

On your shoulder

Made your heart beat

In a rhythm

Ill-suited

For lullabies.

I think this is why

You fell back

And closed the lid,

And laid your head

On your velvet pillow.

I haven’t seen you since.

And I often wonder if you’ll be able to forget

the color of light.

© by scj