Poetic License

I want to be a poet when I grow up.

I wrote my first poem when I was in sixth grade. My teacher played the song "Goodnight Saigon" by Billy Joel, and I was inspired by the power of the words and the way Joel expressed them. So, when my class had some free time in the computer lab later that afternoon, I spent those moments writing my own poem. The rhyme scheme was cheesy and the content somewhat overblown and stilted (I, like Billy Joel, wrote about the experience of a soldier at war. Nevermind that I was ten and had no person knowledge on the subject...) But I was both proud of what I wrote and embarrassed. I wanted desperately to share my work with someone, but I didn't know how to do it. So, I printed a copy of the poem and put it on the teacher's desk surreptitiously. The next day, the teacher asked the class who had put the poem on her desk, and I didn't want to say anything. I couldn't tell from her tone whether she was impressed or concerned. It took several hours before I got up the courage to take credit for my work.

That's so often how I feel about my poetry. I want to share it with people, to use it as a form of expression, but I'm also really insecure about whether or not it's any good. While I've gained enough confidence about my other writings to feel comfortable sharing them, to be able to preach my own words in front of a congregation, I've never developed that sort of confidence about my poetry. I get nervous anytime people read my poetry, and I become totally tongue-tied when I try to share my poetry aloud.

When I lived in South Africa, I went to weekly poetry readings at a coffee shop with another American student. We would go, order hot chocolate, and listen to the words the others shared. Each week a similar crowd gathered: the blind man who wrote his poems in braille and shared them from memory while his guide dog sat on the floor, the sixty-something white male English professor, the thirty-something black female graduate student, the black teens who spoke of racism and transformation, the fifty-something wealthy white man who funded studio time so that the whole group could record a CD together, to share their work and get feedback and encouragement. Listening to their words inspired me to write my own poems, to expand my imagery and start the search for my own poetic voice. Finally, during my last week in Cape Town, I shared a poem that I had written with the group. With courage born of knowing I'd be going 9,000 miles away and likely wouldn't see them again, I shared my words. But that remains the only time I have had the courage to share my work aloud.

One of the friends I made in seminary, R, is a spoken word artist. He would write poems and share them at open mic nights. When he wanted to express himself in less formal situations, he'd find a song on the radio with a good backbeat, turn the bass up and the treble down, and freestyle over it. His talent never failed to amaze me. As I listened to him, I always wished I could craft words that quickly and beautifully, and share them with others so bravely.

The pastor of my home church is a poet. Every few months he even preaches a poem, somehow weaving together the Scriptures for the day, world events, and the comings and goings of a small community. That is now what I aspire to do. I want to find a way to meld together what I learned from the poetry readings in Cape Town, the rhythm and creativity of freestyle from R, and the wisdom and liturgical touch of my home pastor to develop my own poetic voice, and I want to share it from the pulpit. The Psalmist spoke poetry into his community to bring their stories and the stories of God together. I want to do that, too.

I want to be a poet when I grow up.