Scribo Ergo Sum
Dec. 11th, 2008 10:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
penfield"There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away,
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;
'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast,
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself is past."
- Lord Byron
When I was but a young buck of 15 years old, my English teacher, Mrs. Nash, tried to teach me poetry. Of course, y the time I was 15, I had already been writing crappy poetry for a year -- the kind of rigidly maudlin stuff that now makes me cringe all the way down to my internal organs.
I'm sitting here with an notebook full of poems dated 1992 through 1997, and it's nothing less than horrifying. There's the pure ridiculousness of a 15-year old guy writing anything titled "I've Faced It All," and the shameless pandering of "The Ballad of Mr. Lonelyhearts," and the sheer creepiness of the faux-gothic "Please Come Sit by My Throne." If my mother hadn't been a pathologically supportive English teacher, I might still be in therapy.
But two of these poems now catch my eye, not because they are particularly profound or well-crafted but because together they serve as mile-markers in my life. And they bring me back to Mrs. Nash.
As an English assignment, she gave us the format for a poem, titled "I am," and told us to "finish" the open verse by completing each line.
The format was as follows:
I am ...
I wonder ...
I hear ...
I see ...
I want ...
I am [repeat first line]
I pretend ...
I feel ...
I touch ...
I worry ...
I cry ...
I am [repeat first line]
I understand ...
I say ...
I dream ...
I try ...
I hope ...
I am [repeat first line]
And because I always did my homework, this is what I came up with:
I am (January 1992)
I am a superstitious daydreamer
I wonder what exactly is in that "secret sauce"
I hear my conscience screaming into the intercom
I see clouds with silver linings
I want a love to call my own
I am a superstitious daydreamer
I pretend I'm performing in front of an audience
I feel the everyday pressure pushing me between rocks and hard places
I touch upon my soul with poetry
I worry about everything
I cry when I'm alone
I am a superstitious daydreamer
I understand I can't change the world, but
I say it's foolish not to try
I dream of a place where hatred is obsolete
I try to keep my balance in an off-centered world
I hope that all the world's lovers find each other
I am a superstitious daydreamer
What we have here is the picture of a naive, fatuous teenager, very typically straining against a lack of control over his life. Also he seems like kind of a weenie.
Fast forward four years, the summer after my freshman year of college. In August of that summer, I had my heart broken for the first time. ("Broken" is too kind a word, really. She ripped it from my chest, baked it for 20 minutes at 400 degrees and served it to me with a kick in the nuts. Good times.) Apropos of nothing -- perhaps I was simply feeling reflective -- I decided to write a sequel.
I am (August 1996)
I am a hopeless romantic
I wonder why people crash together and drift apart
I hear songs that tell my stories
I see the glass half-empty, and
I want more
I am a hopeless romantic
I pretend I know it all
I feel their eyes upon me
I touch joy when I make you laugh
I worry that nothing matters
I cry for you to hear me
I am a hopeless romantic
I understand that I am one in a million
I say we have to believe
I dream I am who I know I can be
I try to maintain balance
I hope that you have learned something about me
I am a hopeless romantic
Reading this now, it seems that I was all over the place emotionally and intellectually. But we can see that by this point I had turned from a self-obsessed adolescent to a socially integrated adolescent. There is a recurring theme of desiring love and belonging, indicative of a young man feeling like an insignificant fish in a big bad pond.
I think that I wrote another one in 2000, but I can't find it. I can't remember anything about what it might look like, but if it happened after Memorial Day (coincident with another heart souffle) I can imagine it might have been pretty bleak.
Eight years ago feels like fifty, and 16 years ago feels like a hundred. I don't know how all the math works, but I wanted to see what would happen if I tried it again today.
I am (December 2008)
I am particular
I wonder how it's all going to end
I hear you laughing
I see your mistakes
I want everything, but
I am particular
I pretend I'm not scared
I feel the time moving faster
I touch all the sensitive spots
I worry that it's never enough
I cry when I don't get my way, for
I am particular
I understand now what my parents were trying to tell me
I say "I love you" whenever I can
I dream of a life full of love
I try to do my part
I hope I do it well, because
I am particular
Gimmicky? Shadowy? Pointedly sentimental? Maybe a little flip? Yeah. But so am I, I guess.
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;
'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast,
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself is past."
- Lord Byron
When I was but a young buck of 15 years old, my English teacher, Mrs. Nash, tried to teach me poetry. Of course, y the time I was 15, I had already been writing crappy poetry for a year -- the kind of rigidly maudlin stuff that now makes me cringe all the way down to my internal organs.
I'm sitting here with an notebook full of poems dated 1992 through 1997, and it's nothing less than horrifying. There's the pure ridiculousness of a 15-year old guy writing anything titled "I've Faced It All," and the shameless pandering of "The Ballad of Mr. Lonelyhearts," and the sheer creepiness of the faux-gothic "Please Come Sit by My Throne." If my mother hadn't been a pathologically supportive English teacher, I might still be in therapy.
But two of these poems now catch my eye, not because they are particularly profound or well-crafted but because together they serve as mile-markers in my life. And they bring me back to Mrs. Nash.
As an English assignment, she gave us the format for a poem, titled "I am," and told us to "finish" the open verse by completing each line.
The format was as follows:
I am ...
I wonder ...
I hear ...
I see ...
I want ...
I am [repeat first line]
I pretend ...
I feel ...
I touch ...
I worry ...
I cry ...
I am [repeat first line]
I understand ...
I say ...
I dream ...
I try ...
I hope ...
I am [repeat first line]
And because I always did my homework, this is what I came up with:
I am (January 1992)
I am a superstitious daydreamer
I wonder what exactly is in that "secret sauce"
I hear my conscience screaming into the intercom
I see clouds with silver linings
I want a love to call my own
I am a superstitious daydreamer
I pretend I'm performing in front of an audience
I feel the everyday pressure pushing me between rocks and hard places
I touch upon my soul with poetry
I worry about everything
I cry when I'm alone
I am a superstitious daydreamer
I understand I can't change the world, but
I say it's foolish not to try
I dream of a place where hatred is obsolete
I try to keep my balance in an off-centered world
I hope that all the world's lovers find each other
I am a superstitious daydreamer
What we have here is the picture of a naive, fatuous teenager, very typically straining against a lack of control over his life. Also he seems like kind of a weenie.
Fast forward four years, the summer after my freshman year of college. In August of that summer, I had my heart broken for the first time. ("Broken" is too kind a word, really. She ripped it from my chest, baked it for 20 minutes at 400 degrees and served it to me with a kick in the nuts. Good times.) Apropos of nothing -- perhaps I was simply feeling reflective -- I decided to write a sequel.
I am (August 1996)
I am a hopeless romantic
I wonder why people crash together and drift apart
I hear songs that tell my stories
I see the glass half-empty, and
I want more
I am a hopeless romantic
I pretend I know it all
I feel their eyes upon me
I touch joy when I make you laugh
I worry that nothing matters
I cry for you to hear me
I am a hopeless romantic
I understand that I am one in a million
I say we have to believe
I dream I am who I know I can be
I try to maintain balance
I hope that you have learned something about me
I am a hopeless romantic
Reading this now, it seems that I was all over the place emotionally and intellectually. But we can see that by this point I had turned from a self-obsessed adolescent to a socially integrated adolescent. There is a recurring theme of desiring love and belonging, indicative of a young man feeling like an insignificant fish in a big bad pond.
I think that I wrote another one in 2000, but I can't find it. I can't remember anything about what it might look like, but if it happened after Memorial Day (coincident with another heart souffle) I can imagine it might have been pretty bleak.
Eight years ago feels like fifty, and 16 years ago feels like a hundred. I don't know how all the math works, but I wanted to see what would happen if I tried it again today.
I am (December 2008)
I am particular
I wonder how it's all going to end
I hear you laughing
I see your mistakes
I want everything, but
I am particular
I pretend I'm not scared
I feel the time moving faster
I touch all the sensitive spots
I worry that it's never enough
I cry when I don't get my way, for
I am particular
I understand now what my parents were trying to tell me
I say "I love you" whenever I can
I dream of a life full of love
I try to do my part
I hope I do it well, because
I am particular
Gimmicky? Shadowy? Pointedly sentimental? Maybe a little flip? Yeah. But so am I, I guess.
