As a child and young adult, I wrote poetry. I don’t think I saved any of it. I don’t know if any of it was good, but like drawing, it felt good. It called and calmed me.
I’ve been told there is poetry in my prose. Maybe that’s true.
So I’m trying my hand at writing poems again, officially. I don’t really know what I’m doing and the goal isn’t perfect poetry.
It’s to express big things in small spaces.
I’m intimidated, vulnerable and feel like an imposter.
Gonna try anyway. Bear with me.
That said, I have a precious and hilarious (maybe you had to be there) memory from 2006. A chat was in progress with Joey and an Unnamed Uncle. The subject was poetry:
Unnamed Uncle: “I like poetry.”
Joey: “Really? What kind?”
Unnamed Uncle: “General.”
The room roared.
It’s not like I’m trying to pick up where he left off, but Joey was (is) a poet and I’m realizing that, for me, now, writing poetry helps me both grieve and celebrate him.
And that’s what I need to do.
Live in the And.
AND wonder what he’s writing up there.
oxoxox
Sweet Emotion
by Pamela Capone
To the voice of Steven Tyler, I woke
I quickly thought of the words I spoke
The night before, after story time, in bed
he said, Gaga, put some good things in my head
Reciting lovely images on which his mind could dwell
I silently prayed his night would go well
Hearing the soft, steady breath of a boy drifting off
I snuck away, finding my own cozy loft
The morning after sweet dreams, I had the notion,
as I heard the song “Sweet Emotion”:
Maybe the lovely images I shared with my sweet pea
had accidentally seeped into me