March 30, 2011

So this slice is found poetry. “Found” in the sense that I’m completely swiping Ruth Metcalfe’s idea because she “found” a poem in her iPod today. Then she told me about it and sent me a text and it sounded so fun I decided to try it too. Since her excitement was inspiration, I thought I should follow her rules too:

1. Look through your collection of song titles in your iPod.
2. Using complete titles “find” a poem.

When I told Andy what I was doing, he said, “I can do that!” and pulled out his iPod. I’m shocked that my husband is writing poetry. His high school English teacher would keel over if she knew. We often tease that Andy marrying an English Teacher (even worse, one who became a writing coach) is the joke of the century. Here is his. My apologies, in advance.

“Do I have to have a title,” he says.

“I guess not, but I’m adding my commentary. This is an awful, sad poem.”

He looks indignant. “It’s poetry, isn’t that what it’s supposed to be?”

Awww, he’s so sweet. “Okay, hand it over so I can add it to my post.”

“Just wait, there’s more.”

Wow, he even wrote more than one stanza.

“Na-uh, you didn’t just write that.”

Evil laugh, “I had to have ‘Surprise you’re dead’ in it. Where else could I go?”

“Not there, people are going to think you are disturbed,” I said.

“Just wait, there’s more.”

“I can’t post this on my blog.”

“Why not?”

“It’s sad and horrible and people are going to think you are a sad and horrible guy.”

“No they’re not. I’m helping them be better teachers. They have to know what guys would do with this kind of thing. Plus it’s poetry, Ruth, what did you expect? Hearts and flowers?”

Maybe. I look at him with what I thought was a disgusted look. He smiled. “Come on,” he said, “They’ll know I’m just trying to rattle your cage. Besides you have to hear the ending. It’s hopeful.”

Hopeful? I stare at him.

“I think it’s good to end with a question, don’t you?”

I stare some more.

“I think you should teach that. End with a question. It’s good.”

“It’s not good, it’s awful and sad and I can’t post it.”

He laughs, knowing he’s pushed my buttons, “Of course it’s sad, I told you it’s poetry. Poetry is supposed to evoke emotions and sadness is a very strong one. I wish I would have thought to do this in high school. You don’t have to think of the words,  you just put them together like a puzzle. I wonder if I would get in trouble for plagiarism.”

I stare. He smiles.

Surely he’s not proud of himself. I attempt to look disgusted.

He laughs. “Come on, I’m funny. What did you expect if I wrote poetry.”

“I don’t know, maybe something sweet, happy, loving. You know, warm and fuzzy.”

He laughs more. Pats my leg. Clearly pleased with himself. “Then it wouldn’t be funny,” he says.

“What’s funny about that poem?”

“The look on your face,” he says, kisses me on the forehead, and laughs some more.

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