The following excerpt is from the introduction to my poetry book First Kiss.
Poets are different
from other people, perhaps not always in the exotic and idealized way
Shelley describes in his essay "A Defence of Poetry" but they are more sensitive than others. They respond to
their lover’s voice, the flight path of finches, or social injustice,
intensely, and their thoughts and feelings become poems that form a lyric or
narrative journal. To suggest that we are all poets reduces a Shakespearean
sonnet to the status of a golden pie crust or a perfectly crafted handbag; all
three are well-made, only one is a work of art.
Poets know a sense of
mystery and of what, in another time, would have been called holy and though
many people share similar feelings, masking them in more acceptable secular
language, their experiences are not as acute as those with poetic and intuitive
natures. Serendipitous moments – “accidentally” opening a book to the exact
page one intended to search for; a friend phoning, only seconds after thought
of; and other more extreme paranormal events, are regarded by most people as a
bit of luck but poets suspect something else is going on, something not easily
defined. In the library scene in “Wings of Desire,” the exquisite film by Wim
Wenders, angels wearing overcoats whisper and inspire readers. This rare inner
awareness is often the deepest part of the creative process and when I
experience it, I feel a peculiar combination of awe and giddiness.
In grammar school. I was one of the
“slow readers” seated in the front row, as if highlighting our lack of verbal
prowess would somehow improve our reading skills. I felt like I was wearing an
invisible dunce cap that even unseen, my classmates knew was there. As a
convalescing and bored child, I reached for a book beside my bed. I don’t
remember what book, only that it was intriguing. Without the pressures of reading
out loud in a classroom and the sound of my voice struggling to pronounce words
that were new to me, at seven years old, I slid into the delight of reading. There
were no literary journals in my home, just everyday magazines, Time for my father and Woman’s Day for my mother. Between
current events and advertisements or between recipes and advertisements, in the
upper right-hand corner or bottom left of some pages, poems appeared. I read
them out loud, often asking my mother to help me with “the hard words.” Even
when I did not understand a poem, I still liked the sound of it. I started
writing my version of poems. I also rode a two-wheeler bike and played second
base on my brother’s baseball team but poetry owned my heart.
I was very fond of rhymes although
my writing could not come near the master teacher, Mother Goose. My early literary
efforts were aborted rather abruptly by a second grade teacher who perhaps
should have been wearing a very visible dunce hat. Our homework assignment was
to write a poem. I was particularly proud of mine because I’d shaped it in
stanzas as I’d seen done in magazines. After I read my poem, the teacher
announced to me and to the class that she knew I had not written it and accused
me of plagiarism, a word I did not know the meaning of, and one I could not
pronounce, at least without lisping. Like a lawn gnome, I stood statue still.
Unlike a gnome, I felt feverish and faint. I did not write another poem until I
was in my early twenties. Sensitivity can be as large a burden as it is a
literary blessing, as shown by my extreme over-reaction to a childhood
incident.
Poets are like other
people in their desire for recognition. With the clear exceptions of French
admirers and supporters like Baudelaire, the poetry of Edgar Allan Poe was not
only unrecognized by his fellow American poets, it was openly scorned by them.
Emerson called Poe “the jingle man.” It is no surprise that poets can behave as
shabbily as other people and what is sad is the extent of the ungraciousness of
Poe’s contemporaries toward him. Perhaps, if he had received the recognition
his totally original talent and poetry merited, and he had not been pulled into
extreme poverty, his despair and alcoholism would not have occurred or, at
least, been greatly tempered by affirmation of his writing. His life might have
been very different, and the number of poems he wrote, much larger.
Like van Gogh, Poe’s genius was acknowledged after his
death. Posthumous recognition of an artist’s work makes art dealers and book publishers
prosper; unfortunately, it also perpetuates the myth of the starving artist –
the great lie that hunger is somehow conducive to creativity. Poets, like
carpenters, scientists, chefs, and all who take pride in their work, desire
acknowledgement of their work and recognition for poets is achieved when their
poetry is known and responded to. I live in a rural area because it is where I
can afford to live. There are no charming little book stores or nearby
universities with ongoing poetry readings. Perhaps without realizing the irony
of her remark, the woman who organizes programs at the local library confides,
“I can get people here for line dancing and knitting classes but not for
literary events.”
John Adams always kept a
book of poems with him and advised his son to do the same saying, “You will
never be alone with a poet in your pocket.” How astounded the second president
of the
United States
would be today to find he could carry thousands of poetry books with him, on a
device smaller than a tobacco pouch. And here, also smaller than a tobacco pouch, is the title poem of my poetry book.
FIRST KISS
Teddy O’Connor, I dreamed of you last night.
You were the age you would be now
and still handsome in your quiet way.
Remember us, in our Easter Sunday best,
beside my father’s mint green Chevrolet,
holding torch-shaped ice cream cones.
Ten years later, I’m wearing a prom dress.
You are Cary Grant in a rented tux.
You broke my heart that night,
being too attentive to another.
Somewhere between the Carvels
and senior prom, probably
when we were twelve, we paused
in a
Long Island woods and
sat beside each other on a fallen tree.
You surprised me with a kiss
and I fell silent as a log.
In the dream, you said you live in
Delaware.
I wonder how you are now.
The fool part of me is tempted to see
how many Theodore O’Connors
live in
Wilmington
but if I found you,
what could I say?
Teddy O’Connor, I
dreamed of you last night.
