The Poem that Can't be Written
There is a poem I can’t write and which I cannot title, “My Unlucky Thirteen”
I can’t write about the one whose tears I could not and will not forget forever or the one who toyed with me, just for fun but it was ok.
Did the fierce one cause the first kiss? Or was it just friends and good timing? If a girl stares at you through the window of a yellow school bus as it drives away, dirty blonde hair hanging over her eyes was that love? You can’t write that stuff.
No one would want to read about angelic hands (later making concrete bridges) and the cliche so trite of young love and a broken heart. You won’t write that. Hayrides? Backseats? Running out of gas? Adventures in the heat lighteninged Indiana summer nights? BUNK! So you can’t write that.
I wouldn’t even THINK about writing about an elegant ballerina? Who could believe that? Like a corny Frank Sinatra song– made me smoke my first cigarette… taking me too far too high too elegantly or how she
morphed me and sent me knocking on a stage door holding Baryshinkov? Running! what a quirky funny gal….and you knew how to drink with me. That is not to be said…or the dad and brothers come to whip my ass.
And I cannot write about a perfect girl my God …those blue eyes and that fine gold hair neat and clean under the headlights as new laid asphalt highway and the calm and peace …so boring!
You cannot write about making love on shipdeck in a storm, wind whipping the blanket so hard you almost went over into the black sea….and how it was so easy little “lazybones” wanting to be a hillbilly
I am too ashamed to write of how, next, now and only now I know what I should have done….kisses…my heart wasn’t ready. My mentors told me not to write corny phrases like “My heart was not ready”. So I won’t write this poem.
My lawyer has advised me not to write about a blue dress why o why did you tempt me so?
It’s far too personal to write about how I remember you told me to just let you take over….how tempted I was to do just that….why didn’t I? I went a long time without crying…then when I heard…I cried out loud for you…..
And there are very good reasons not to write about how It was good not to be guilty but I remember, ”It is snowing … heavy wet flakes of love” We met secretly in the midst of a derby crowd to kiss …once….in the secrecy of the thronging crowd.
You can’t write that! You can’t make that stuff up!
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I think, despite your protestations, that you have written a lovely poem.
Which is the best kind.
As far as what your teachers told you: ever wonder how the first poets wrote without teachers?
-- Mal
