The Defiant Poet-Part I

Spring is upon us, faithful readers. Time to try your hand at writing some poetry. "Ah, but I'm no poet," you groan. "I wish she would get over the poetry thing and talk about writing stories." Writing a poem is simply telling a story in verse. I believe everyone has a little poet inside them. A poem cries out to be born every time something special, something emotional, something which fires our passion occurs in front of us.

Poetry requires paying attention. We have to notice the two bluebirds considering the wooden birdhouse shaped like a church as their potential summer home; a place they can raise a family. Then we have to allow the feelings that arise to bloom and take up space inside us--so much space in fact, they demand an outlet. Finally, we must take pen in hand as soon as possible and capture the details. This is telling a story. And writing a poem.

Using the craft of poetry: line breaks, vivid imagery, maybe an occasional rhyme but mostly rhythm, is simple enough for a child to do. In fact children all over the world do it. They write poems in classrooms, sprawled belly down on porches, or sitting cross-legged high in back yard tree houses. Nothing stops them. They aren't afraid to write bad poems along with the good. The quality of the poem is not at issue. Cupping the moment and the feeling in their hands and heads is the point. They are defiant poets. They let nothing stop them, and neither should you.

Here are a couple of my first poems written at age 7, when I was in the first grade. The first poem, entitled simply "Spring" was written as I sprawled across the small back stoop of my house in Houston, TX in 1961. Already you can see the Realism in the budding poet.



Spring

Spring is here.
The birds are saying tweet, tweet, tweet.
The trees have leaves on them.
Butterflies are playing on flowers.
Fruits are growing on trees, too,
and grass is turning green.
The flowers are turning all colors,
and the flyes are eating our food.

My second attempt, after we had covered poetry in school, came out a little more formed; not quite so freestyle. It did have the honor of being the first poem in my class's poetry book! You can see the Emily Dickinson, no?

The Rain

I love to see the drops
of rain,
Falling on the window
Pane.
They splash and splash,
on the ground;
and make the little puddles round.



A defiant poet lives in all of us waiting for someone to hand her a pencil. Give her one. Set her free.