The first poem I wrote was as a sophomore in college. Totally, probably clinically, depressed at the time. I had little purpose and wanted to be anyplace other on earth, doing just about anything else. My English professor was also one of my best friend’s lover.
That’s right. I had to face this man at the ungodly hour of 8:00 a.m. every Saturday morning. I wonder now if there wasn’t a correlation there, somewhere. We all had been tasked with writing a paper about ourselves because, to paraphrase, “…we were too inexperienced to write about anything else.”
Tortured, I handed in a paper that was rapidly returned with a note that I could do better, dig deeper. So I capitulated and tossed five pages of catharsis onto paper, double spaced and typed on a rickety old typewriter. Then, sitting in the Rathskeller one afternoon, I started writing a poem about a tree. About me.
In the end, I drew that tree and handed in the drawing, the poem, and my revised paper as one. I will never forget his note: “I could have graded you on the drawing of the tree alone, as it is that revealing.” Damn. Then, to my surprise, he wrote: “Unlike most young poets, you did not sacrifice meaning for rhyme. A++”
A young poet? Me? Apparently not a proficient one as they only come to me every so often. Words fill my head, an idea blooms, and if I’m very lucky there will be a pen and paper nearby.
I never shared my poems with anyone for a very long time. They were personal memories held tight and hidden. A near lifetime flew past and we moved to Florida where I became a member of a Creative Writing Club and a Journalism Club. I’ve learned from those that I enjoy writing but am not goal driven.
A few years ago a new Florida friend drew me into a group called the Poetry Pals. We are not an official club-club. We just are a handful of women who enjoy hosting each other for a lunch and to share poetry. Usually the hostess picks a topic but any poems brought will do. One woman is a prolific, published poet; two of us write when the heavens move us; the others just enjoy the shared time, stories and poetry.
Rob encouraged me to publish two short stories online, through Smashwords.com so “Maybelle and Mattie: Each with a story of her own to tell” is available for free to the world. I don’t advertise that and rarely look to see if anyone is still reading them. By now they must be way-way-way down the list. It isn’t as easy to format poetry so those never got recorded.
Not too long ago, as we were discussing blog and website development, Rob said I really should publish my poetry so it will be there when I’m not. Okay, maybe not that bluntly, but I got it. I surely cannot leave him with a binder of poems and the burden of not knowing what to do with it — with them. So AMusingMarilyn will be my vehicle.
If you stumble across my poems and enjoy one or two, please feel free to share BUT remember that written words are copyrighted as they are written. Give the author credit for her work; for her words. To plagiarize is to admit defeat in your own strength to create. That is not a satisfying path to wander. And to steal someone else’s work entirely is exactly that: a theft. Taking someone else’s intellectual property and putting another name on it is not worthy of those who read and know the love and myriad meanings of words. Think better of yourself, your family and your friends.