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.