the poem i got a b- on because it wasn’t deep enough
The sun is setting slowly
And revealing magnificent shades
Of red, pink, and orange.
It is my favorite time of day
And I am at my favorite place.
I am standing at the baseline
Anticipating the next shot that
Will be hit my way.
I look left and briefly watch the sun
It reminds me of the countless other
Times I have watched a
Sunset on this court.
The wind changes and the scent
Of barbeque makes its way towards me
Reminding me how hungry I am
And how my mom will have dinner
Ready for me when I get home.
This is where I grew up and
Dreamed big dreams of being
A tennis star.
I remember talks after lessons
About who got what scholarship
At what college to play.
Here on the court I am not any particular age.
I am nine, I am fifteen, I am twenty.
I am invincible.
I will get to every shot that is hit my way.
The rhythmic sound of hitting the ball
Helps me make sense of things in my life.
I have played through many feelings here.
Happiness, grief, sadness, nostalgia.
Each game I play is a struggle to be better
And I do my best to make it out alive.
Now that I am older I dream big dreams
Of things the real world offers me.
I have a future. I am twenty
And I may not be a tennis star
But I am still invincible.
The moon rises in the east
Over my Miami horizon.
It is almost as beautiful as
The sunset was.
I am home.
i’m
not much of a poet. this was a 15 minute poem that i wrote for my
creative writing class right before it started one thurs morning. no
rhyme, no meter, no structure. it just flowed, as most of my writing
does for me, especially when its an easy assignment ("where do you feel
most at home") and i’m under a deadline. this teacher is extremely hard
to please. he likes to give me b’s and say that stuff i write is
superficial. not that this is anything outstanding. ah well. can’t have
everything.
i have such a love/hate relationship with writing
anything. i hate to write. sometimes i can’t make myself do it. like
right now, i have to be doing a style analysis for my mag writing class
and its so boring that it doesn’t interest me enough. it’s due at
11:30. and its my major. but that feeling that you get after you’ve
read something that you’ve written, where somehow what you’re feeling
is right there in front of you, and it just works. or the relief that
comes from getting that paper done after you’ve worked really hard on
it. or getting the grade you wanted. the best my creative writing
teacher has given me is a b+. next on the agenda is a short story. i
haven’t written one of those since like elementary school and it makes
me nervous. Dave and i were talking the other day and he asked if i had
started working on a book or anything, and i was like. . .not yet.
sandy says that this is the time we should get into the habit of
writing because it helps you be disciplined to it as you get older.
i
read about gertrude stein and t.s. eliot and ezra pound and picasso
being surrounded by other writers and artists part of the modernist
revolution in paris. i wonder what that was like. i wish i was one of
them. just not crazy. they say that you just have to write something
that people will read. the greats never really became great until after
they were gone. and thats the amazing thing about writing. you live far
beyond your own lifetime.