Friday, May 27, 2011


I don't consider myself a poet, but every once in a while I get an urge to write a poem. Or two. Take, for instance, my entry in the Spring 2011 literary journal my university produces:

Economy of Wounds

I’ll show you my scars

If you reveal yours

Silent reminders

Of many past wars

My own revolutions

Against being me

You’d call me a fraud

If you could see

I’ll show you my scars

If you reveal yours

Some self inflicted

To gain cheap rewards

My own revolutions

They aren’t all me

I need them for status

Nobody is free

This "inexplicable" urge, however, is actually explainable. And I really like the explanation. My great, great grandmother was a poet. She wrote haiku, free-verse, structured poems, and more. Every so often I rediscover the one book of hers I have. I never met her, but every time I read her poems I feel connected to her--and my crazy, writerly ways are a little bit more explainable.

Here is a poem she wrote:


The language, I admit, I abuse it

And frequently misuse it

With forethought quite malicious.

Now come on and admit you peruse it,

And thoughtfully chews it

With distaste quite delicious. --Kelly

Yep…I think we’re related.

1 comment:

  1. I have 3 books that Great Grandma Kelly and many of her children, including Grandma Iris had writings in. Someday you will have to visit so you can read them... :D. (Aunt Mary)