Monday, August 1, 2011


"This is not a poem, this is a memoir," she says.
I hear: "You are not a poet."
She is telling me to write the bigger story.
And I am telling her to go fuck herself.
After all, I'm perfect.
When they are through with me, and I lay there, butchered, heart bleeding, ego slaughtered on the table, my chin begins to tremble and it comes.
We have moved on to another poet but I am not done feeling sorry for myself.
Afterwards, a fellow writer asks how I'm doing.
I excuse myself from her presence, from my reasons.
I clean my cooler and start to pack all the while crying to myself that I should give up, that I am not a poet, that maybe I just need to accept that I'm not that good a writer.
A friend interrupts my pity party of one
"I mean what is the point? Why am I trying so hard? Maybe I should just go home, become a mom, I don't know!"
She laughs and then stops herself.
"I'm sorry, but can I just sound like such a fucking writer right now."
We decide to go for a bike ride through Beech Forest.
The hills are steep and my gears are locked.
I almost forget about being the world's worst poet, but then we stop and the sting is still there.
We sit on the beach, talking, not talking, writing, not writing and then we see it.
"Do you see that black mass out there?" She points.
I look and look and look and suddenly, water spouts up into the sky,
the black mass breaches followed by a huge white tailfin.
"Whoa!" We both scream, jaws dropped as we see her majesty break the sea.
And suddenly it occurs to me.
I just saw a fucking whale!
Okay, so I wrote a bad poem.

1 comment:

Carmen said...

Perspective! A whale?! That's fucking awesome
Ps you are not a bad poet