Friday, June 11, 2010

So You Think You Don't Like Poetry


I thought for this week it would be interesting to post two poems on the same subject: learning. One is by
Brendan Constantine; it's called "1981" and was published last year in the journal Luvina. The other is by (gasp!) me. It's called "Learning Curve" and I wrote it last year. It was just published in Waterways.

(Note: For some reason, Blogger is not letting me format this the way I want -- so some of the line breaks are off. To read it correctly formatted, click here)


1981

I learned the word disaster meant against the stars,
learned it did not apply to this world; the sky intended
every cruelty.
.....................
I watched the boy with no legs
draw
pictures of feet for an hour in Study Hall. .........................................................In the hall
of my uncle’s rest home I heard the paper voice of a man
so old he’d forgotten he was blind. When a nurse passed

his door, he’d ask “Turn the lights on, would you?”


I learned sadness like a way home from school. I got in

later and later. Some nights I didn’t come back at all

but sat up waiting for myself.
..............................................
I passed Geography,

History, & Spanish for the last time. My cat died.

My dog turned grey. My physics teacher was hit

by an ambulance.

But I read a book & understood it.

A woman asked me to touch her body. I did.
......................
I wrote

my first poem. It said people were like moons. I believed

what I wrote, believed I had done all my writing, wouldn’t

do anymore.
.....................
Then I believed a book that said the oleanders
behind our house were poison. All summer I dreamed

of meeting someone I could feed one brutal flower.



Learning Curve


I don’t remember learning how to wrap
a gift, who taught me how with steady hands

to tie the string around my fingers, curl

the ends. Tying shoelaces I’ll credit to Dad,

along with telling time and jokes, balancing

a checkbook, chopping onions without crying.

In fifth grade, Val showed me the way to run
a razor over my legs, said Watch out
around the ankles. French kissing: the honor

goes to a wiry boy whose name was James

or John. He slid his timid tongue across

my gums, placed his hand on my hairless knee.

You can break a promise and be forgiven

I learned from my mother, as well as how
to flirt while knotting a necktie around
your lover’s throat. Lying I picked up myself,

first small things like I’ve never felt this way

before, then bigger, hungrier untruths:

This glass will be my last; sex means nothing;

bruises are beautiful; I am not a poet.


1 comment:

Coley said...

Great poem, Katie! I am one of those people who claims to not like poetry....I really enjoyed that, though!