Mmm…this term… I haven’t cried this much over school since I took Applied Statistics. I already disliked my intermediate poetry workshop (PW2) teacher because I felt she was rude and dismissive. Now, I dislike her even more. She finally graded my four poetry submissions, and again, she was rude, mouthy, dismissive, and not at all helpful. She gave no helpful feedback and merely complained. I am very fond of my PW1 professor and revised my poems incorporating her feedback. I can take constructive criticism and I find it helpful and useful.
These comments are not helpful or useful. My poem is “too long,” but as I just told Adam, Whitman’s Song of Myself is over 52 pages. A certain part is confusing to her (which I was rudely reprimanded for saying the same thing about two poems) and therefore not needed, and one poem is nothing more than a journal entry. She didn’t say anything at all about one poem. Oh, and she said I “should be” writing in free verse. Um, why? Last I checked, poets could write in whatever form they wished. Louisa May Alcott rhymed. Dr. Seuss rhymed. Whitman, Dickinson, Frost, Pound, Thomas…all wrote poems that rhymed. Every poem I submitted was free verse, btw.
So, I shall present to you my terrible poems. It’s unfortunate because I was actually proud of these.
~*~Little One~*~
His eyes were clear, his smile was bright,
but he called me Little One.
He spoke of the days of World War II,
vivid stories punctuated by his laughter,
yet he called me Little One.
My brother became his son — my father.
My father’s latest mistake became my mom —
Oh, how that woman must have seethed!
My grandmother stayed his wife,
or perhaps his combat nurse —
after 40 years together, it’s hard to tell.
Still, I was Little One.
On the surface, a sweet endearment —
a generic term to bypass recognition
and leave room for plausible deniability.
He drove ‘round the yard from
dawn ‘til dusk, clinging to the last
vestiges of independence with each
calculated turn of the wheel.
The last time ever I saw his face,
he was lying in a hospital bed,
poisoned blood coursing through his veins.
He looked so peaceful.
He looked so small.
And I realized — our roles had reversed.
He had become the little one.
He was never dismissing.
He was never forgetting.
I remained close to his heart.
I was one worth protecting.
With his life's tales told, his energy depleted,
his canvas was blankened once more —
the lines and years melting away
with each increasingly shallow breath.
In that moment, our worlds aligned,
for I was his Little One, and he was mine.
~*~Behind Windshields~*~
It was raining. It was dark.
At the end of the driveway, we waited.
Once more, I was chasing after my father —
a man who never wanted to carry that label,
who wore his defiance like a well-tailored suit.
He was my town —
adorned with a shimmering crown
made from razor blades and lies.
The brake lights shone like nebulae
frozen in a night sky — long forgotten,
yet so desperate to remain seen.
She told me not to come.
She banned me from his funeral.
I shrunk from her emerald gaze,
turning a mirror in place of
the other cheek for ten years.
Never a word from my father.
No calls —
No cards —
No contact —
as it had been my entire life.
He poisoned my thoughts and mind
like the cancer that invaded his body.
Still, his pride stayed intact,
denying peace and closure for
his child who was still a child,
emotionally stunted and seeking
love from one who refused to give it.
I could not approach my dying father,
but he would wave to me.
Wave to his only daughter —
the one who relentlessly made excuses
and defended him — out of love,
out of fear that others would realize
she was undeserving of love.
With tears dripping off my cheeks, I waved —
each of us behind windshields.
A final wave through distorted panes.
A silent goodbye to years of pain.
A silent hello to years more.
~*~Diminished~*~
I rush to tell you about my day; tripping over words as you look away.
There’s so much I want to tell you; things I think of or that
Happened while you live your life in unconsciousness or another dimension, pointedly unaware.
You crave my presence only to satisfy yourself and not much else.
Your refusal of help tells me I mean little to you.
You choose to exist and drag me down as well.
Living in a way I swore I never would,
Exhausting myself and receiving no help, only platitudes.
Your words are written with chalk on
A rainy day, they mean less
Than nothing — placeholders and placaters,
Until I give up.
I fade away
Every day
Diminished.
~*~O Jester! My Jester!~*~
O, Jester! My Jester! Your tortured life is done.
The world has given you laughter; the love you sought is won.
The curtains are drawn, you have moved on, your mourners left behind.
Your pain was too great, you foresaw your fate of living with a diseased mind.
But, O, heart! Heart! Heart!
O, the tears of devastation we shed,
Where on the stage my jester lies,
Fallen silent and dead.
O, Jester! My Jester! Rise up and hear the cheers,
Rise up — for you, in high esteem — for you, the audience appears,
For you, accolades and honors — for you, the one so beguiling,
For you, they call, the mirthsome masses, their eager faces smiling.
Here, Jester! Dear paragon!
This lap beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the stage,
You've fallen silent and dead.
My jester does not answer; his lips are blue and still.
My paragon does not feel my hand; he has no pulse nor will.
The screen has dimmed, the credits roll, the final cut is done.
From a troubled life ladened with strife, the pain he knew is gone.
Exult, O, world! And sing, O, songs!
But I with mournful stead,
Stand on the stage where my jester lies,
Fallen silent and dead.
Cari R Esta 