A few months ago, my mother and father brought me a box of old memories and treasures from my school experience. It was mostly filled with high school tests, report cards and other artifacts of my upbringing. From my 3rd grade Young Author Award story to drafts of stories from the freshman yearbook, I watched my life of literacy pass before me. A plain manila envelope caught my eye. It had the word "DENISON" scribbled on the front--all CAPS and in black permanent marker. My father's handwriting.
As an english major at Denison University, I took classes that ranged from 18th Century British Literature to Contemporary Drama. But, the one class that really stuck with me was the Creative Writing course. We experimented writing in multiple genres, but I can remember truly fascinated with writing poetry. I thought I would share some drafts of poems that I wrote as a junior English major. Some are really bad, but I think there are a few that stand out as somewhat decent. I thought I would share some of these poems as they are from a slice of my life on top of "the hill" at Denison.
The statue watches. A lifeguard
High above the pool of pigeons
The bearded, old man
Visits him every day
And tosses chunks of bread to the birds,
Making sure each bird gets an equal amount.
He knows the old man's wife is gone.
He can tell from the way the man slumps there,
Hopelessly feeding them,
So they don't
As did the man's beloved dove.
The statue cannot weep for the old man.
The statue watches.
High above the swirling river of people, he looks
Over them as they pass by, oblivious to his
A concrete ice-cream cone melting away
From Mother's harsh winter tongue.
He sits there. Gazing. Watching.
The crowd flows past his lookout station,
Neglecting his graffiti-stained body.
I stop from the rapid flow of people
And glance up in his eyes. Cracked
From Mother's tears that splash down
Into the pores of his moss-covered gray
Skin. Weathered from her breath
Blowing across his body.
Looking past the gritty, stone skin, I see
A man who knows things, many things.
A keeper of secrets.
I turn my collar against Mother's morning mist,
Returning to my stream of stress.
The statue watches. The statue keeps.