History of a Contemptuous Poet

I wish I could tell you the first poem I ever read. I wish I could tell you how old I was, and how it affected me, or recall the beautiful nostalgia that should come to mind when I think of my history with poetry. However, that memory has slipped from my temporarily vacuous mind. I can however, tell you the first poem that truly gave fuel to my interest in poetry. I was around the age of twelve and can remember reading Edgar Alan Poe’s “A Dream within a Dream”. Go ahead and read it yourself. It’s quite a piece of art if you haven’t familiarized yourself with it as of yet: (http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-dream-within-a-dream/)

"A Dream Within A Dream"

Take this kiss upon the brow
And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow-

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand-

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep- while I weep!

O God! can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

~ Edgar Alan Poe

I can remember feeling a closeness to the poem. I was in the midst of a parental divorce, school change, puberty, and all the other wonderful adversities that come with adolescence. I felt a bit like I lived inside myself during those times, and in a way, never quite fully removed myself. Poetry became my way of expression. It became a way to make sense of all the confusion in the world. It was the only way I knew how to harness that which could not be spoken plainly, and revamp it into an obscure puzzle that only my own mind would ever truly be able to piece together.

Over the years I have never sat down and said "I'm going to write a poem". I've never attested myself to be a great poet. I have never sat and played with words to create some magical rhythm. Leo Rosten once said "The only reason to be a professional writer is that you can't help it". Well, that's sort of what poetry is like to me. I find myself in a melancholy mood, and before I know it, words just start popping into my head in some random order. I write them down to try to make sense of it all. When I get done, I don't have something to put in a pretty book and sell at Barnes & Noble. But I do have a peace of mind after reading it, and finding that it makes sense of everything in my head. What is so great about it, is that no one ever knows what it's about or what it means to me.

I don't like to circumscribe poetry. I don't like to put it in a little box and say "This is what a poem looks like". Poetry is more than the clever grouping of words and intentionally obscure meanings. Its more than rhythm and rhyme. Poetry is a persons soul, graciously put on display for those who care to take an interest.

I don't know if you'd call whats written below a poem, but it just kind of came out one day while I was sitting at my desk at work. I haven't titled it yet. I'm up for suggestions though.

Untitled

On opposite sides of the river we both stand. Separated by the cold and parlous waters. The bitter wind burns my cheek, As if you had sent it over yourself from across the way. We cling to the earth beneath us, As that is the only binding force.

But soon the seasons will change, And the waters will warm. That is what we wait for.

As you can tell, Its a long cry from Poe, but if it makes me feel, then to me, its poetry.