[Barbology] Beginnings

My first exposure to poetry was in the form of a child’s prayer that rhymed. It terrified me!  And the worst thing about it was I was supposed to say it out loud every night before going to sleep.

Now I lay me down to sleep

I pray the Lord my soul to keep

If I should die before I wake

I pray the Lord my soul to take

What were the adults thinking?  Seriously! I dreaded going to sleep, for fear I might die. And I did not see the logic in saying these words at bedtime but not at nap time. What if I died napping? What if the roof caved in? What if there was a fire like in the little cloth book given to me on my 4^th birthday --  “Pauline and the Matches”? Would the Lord not take my soul at nap time? So many things I did not understand. So many things I still do not understand.

Very early on, I realized the adults were fairly useless when it came to answering my questions. They either didn’t know very much or they didn’t want to let me in on whatever it was they did know. I would have to find things out for myself. Learning to read seemed like an excellent idea.

I devoured books. Given a choice between reading and eating, sleeping or playing with other childen, reading won out more often than not. “A Child’s Garden of Verses” entertained me for days. I read the verses over and over until I knew most by heart. Poetry and I had a rough beginning; now it is as much a part of me as breath. Through the years, my exposure to poets broadened and my taste galloped over terrain between Dorothy Parker and Charles Bukowski

I have always been interested in “people poems” – often those with a psychological twist or a little surprise that causes the reader to release a tiny “ooh” at the end. I will leave you with one of my favorite poems by Bukowski that has not yet failed to elicit my sigh of “ooh”.

Bluebird

Charles Bukowski

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I’m too tough for him,

I say, stay in there, I’m not going

to let anybody see

you

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I pour whiskey on him and inhale

cigarette smoke

and the whores and the bartenders

and the grocery clerks

never know that

he’s

in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but i’m too tough for him,

I say,

stay down, do you want to mess

me up?

you want to screw up the

works?

you want to blow my book sales in

Europe?

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out but I’m too clever,

I only let him out

at night sometimes

when everybody’s asleep

I say, I know that you’re there

so don’t be

sad.

then I put him back, but he’s singing a little

in there, I haven’t quite let him

die

and we sleep together like

that

with our

secret pact 

and it’s nice enough to

make a man

weep, but I don’t

weep, do

you?

© 2011 Barbara Moore, Co-editor, Spiracle