I have a poetry workshop this semester and have finished this week’s work. We were to do a couple of writing exercises that will be the base for poems. I’ve not attended a poetry workshop before so I don’t know how this works. I took workshops for statistics class, which was great and super helpful, but not something that dealt with creativity. I had to choose a couple of prompts from the required reading and free write, which is another thing I’m not experienced in, most likely because of AuDHD hindrances. 

Now, this required reading mentions people not being able to write a poem in 20 or 30 minutes and makes it sound impossible to actually do so, and that made me question its credibility completely. When I have an idea for a poem, I will sit there and write or type it out in a few minutes. I don’t make a chore out of it (I don’t write every day, either, so that might have something to do with it). 

Also, it was published in 1997 and devotes two chapters to getting recognized and getting published, as in subscribing to magazines and using 🐌 mail. I don’t know why there aren’t newer editions, especially since it’s required material for the class. It’s very common for school books to be updated in subsequent editions. 

Anyway, the prompts I chose were the base for Elephant Blue, Dilly Dilly and Taily Pole that I decided to share here 😊. I have to squeeze poems out of these two writings. Talk about a challenge! 

Elephant Blue, Dilly Dilly

There is a stuffed blue elephant that sits in my spare room.  It was a point of contention for years.  There is nothing special about this stuffed animal.  It is the blue of a summer sky.  Its neck no longer supports its head, most likely due to the nighttime chokeholds it’s endured.  The body is neither soft nor coarse, and the stuffing is that weird stuff that just feels wrong and unpleasant, a slightly more malleable version of that green Styrofoam found in the bottom of floral arrangements.  I can feel and hear it rubbing and crinkling every time I pick the toy up.  It sets my teeth on edge.  I wonder why it didn’t when I was a child.  Maybe it did and I ignored it out of spite. 

This unremarkable, cheap blue elephant was at the center of many underwhelming moonlit “fights” between my brother and me.  Wherever the elephant (not even important enough to have earned a name) began its night, it ended up in a different bed in a different room by morning.  No words were spoken.  No punches were thrown.  Simply here today and gone tomorrow.  Our level of tiredness would dictate how many trips the elephant made in a night. 

My brother, two years older and the opposite sex, took great pleasure in annoying me and making me cry.  The elephant, possibly a prize from one of the crappy games at the county fair, possibly given to one of us by our deadbeat dad who still held hero status at our ages, was an easy rise for both of us, two kids who inherited their father’s temper and temperament. 

I’m not sure what importance the elephant held or if it was merely a pawn in a game I could play with my brother without fearing physical repercussions.  It stayed behind with my mom and me when my brother moved in with Dad at 16.  I was happy he was gone for about a week and then I was done with this new game of being an only child and I wanted my Bub back.  The elephant was forgotten about, tucked away in the closet, then in a black trash bag with other stuffed toys.  I had clearly won but I didn’t really care.

The elephant moved with us to a new home, then went with me when I was briefly married.  Upon returning to Mom’s, the toy was tucked away, still in a bag, in a storage unit, and then at my aunt and uncle’s.  Time passed.  Dad died.  Mom died.  I remarried; my brother gave me away to my new husband.  Bub died.  I now had room at Mom’s house for my stuff, so everything from my aunt and uncle’s house was returned to me.

So many memories!  A stuffed clown with buttons and zippers, a homemade Care Bear with an A stitched on its chest, and that glorious Blue Elephant.  He is magnificent; the beautiful blue of a summer sky, floppy and worn in.  Precious memories contained in this priceless stuffed Elephant. 

Taily Pole

I come from a decent-sized family on my mom’s side.  I grew up with the Parents (Grandma and Papaw), the Kids (my mom and her four siblings), the Spouses (except for Mom) and the Grandkids (me and my 8 cousins).  Every weekend, we had almost a complete turnout of the family with the exception of one aunt and uncle who lived four hours away.  This changed as we got older, with cousins getting into dating or school sports, but it stayed true for years.  I’m the second youngest of the Grandkids, so Papaw and Grandma were getting up there in age.

Being the younger of the Grandkids, I loved hearing Papaw tell stories, which was a rare treat.  One story in particular, Taily Pole, was a favorite of everyone, not because of the story itself, but because of how it was told by Papaw.  It was most effective when he told us the story outside.  We frequently had cookouts in the cooler months, complete with marshmallows to roast.  Getting comfortable was a feat; sitting near the fire was way too hot, sitting away from the fire was way too cold.  It never failed that someone would drag blankets out of the house with one being confiscated by those sitting on the ground. 

Once everyone was nice and cozy, we grandkids would beg Papaw to tell Taily Pole.  No other story was ever requested during these cookouts.  He would do the obligatory hemming and hawing while all of us grandkids pestered him to the point of acquiescence.  Wrapped up in his own blanket and sitting on a patio chair in the mouth of the single-car garage/potato cellar, he would start the story off low and slow. 

The younger ones couldn’t help but giggle in anticipation.  We knew what was coming, yet we didn’t know how soon and how animatedly it would be delivered.  When Papaw got to the end of the story, he bugged his eyes, magnified by his glasses, and leaned forward, shouting, “I ain’t got your taily pole!”  The story always ended the same and there were always a few who squeaked out of shock, which set everyone else off laughing.  I was usually one of the squeakers but also one who wanted to hear it again and again. 

Years after Papaw died, one of my uncles told Taily Pole to the Great-Grandkids.  I smiled with delight and excitement seeing the little heads poking out of blankets, hearing the nervous laughter, watching the kids, eyes and smiles bright, looking around to see if Mom and Dad were listening, watching the flames flicker in my uncle’s glasses as he bugged his eyes, leaned forward, and shouted, “I ain’t got your taily pole!”