Another April day, another poem. I know, I know. Some of you are probably saying, “Enough already!”, while others are probably saying, “It would behoove you my good man to reconsider your analytical expose hence forth, to whit, thereof, unto thee, oh great blogger of present cyberspace”, where upon I would say, “Huh?”
No matter what you are thinking, no matter what you are saying, no matter what you had for lunch, it is still National poetry month, and I am still trying to post a poem a day for the entire month of April. Yes, the whole month.
The following poem is one I wrote when I was a sophmore in high school. I knew then that I liked to write, and some of it came very easily. I didn’t know if my writings were any good, that is, until I submitted the following poetic piece to my literature class, where upon my teacher accused me of plagiarism. She returned my paper with a big fat 0 for a grade. When I confronted her, she looked at me, smiled, picked up the paper and started asking me questions about it, like, “What does dulce mean?”. I told her it was a spanish word that meant sweet. She looked confused, then smiled again and grilled me with a few more questions. After I answered all her questions, she frowned, threw the paper on her desk and shouted at me that she didn’t believe I wrote it and would not give me a grade for it. I’m not sure really what transpired after that, but I do know that my father took the poem to nearby Colby College and had a literature professor look at it. The professor told him that he had never seen the poem before, and that it was to his liking.
I’m not sure if I ever got a grade for the piece or not, but I did keep it in a safe place, and transfered it to digital back a few years.
The poem is below. The writer is me. This is my blog, and I thank you for stopping by once again.
If you like to write, never stop. If you have writer’s block, just write about nothing. You might be surprised at how fast nothing turns into something very special.
Take care, have a great afternoon and here we go again!
The Man Is
There lives a man down by the sea
With tales of near and far
Stories of death and catastrophe
That followed men to war.
He tells of times which make you cheer
When winds sailed fast and strong
With oceans swift and dulce to ear
Ne’er currents to guide you wrong.
Some secrets within this man’s tales
Hold gold and jewels and women
When times were good and prosper hailed
Those tired men a sailin’.
Now as I think back deep and far
Upon minds infinity
I realize that this old man
Has been from days birth, me.