Chicken Scratchings

Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

I hear people say that they always knew they wanted to write. Those people often wrote stories as children. To others the writing bug came later. I was in high school. My 11th grade English teacher submitted a poem I had written to a state poetry contest. I didn’t know she had done this, and I didn’t know that I had won some recognition until the school principal called me out of class and told me. I must have appeared totally discombobulated, because this was the first time ever I had been called to the Principal’s office — I couldn’t imagine what I had done wrong — but by the time I arrived, I was sure it was something. I had been known to be a smart-mouth and a passive-aggressive little pr_ _ k. Since all my transgressions, until now, had flown safely under the radar, it was a total mystery how they reached the top of the school hierarchy.

You would have thought my walk down the empty halls, with my mind agitating like a crowd whose team was 2 points from the championship with 3 seconds on the clock, and my hands sweating like the locker room after 2nd period gym class, was a slow walk to the gallows.

I was shown into the inner sanctum. The Principal smiled, rose, reached over the walnut desk and shook my hand. “This must be how they do it,” I thought, “just before strapping the condemned into the electric chair.”

“Have a seat,” he said, still smiling. “Congratulations.”

Huh?

“Congratulations for getting an honorable mention for your poem in the Utah State Poetry Society’s Youth Contest.”

He seemed sincere, but I didn’t have a clue about what he was saying. He might as well have been speaking Swahili.

He presented me with a newspaper clipping and there was my name and the name of the poem I had written circled in red ink.

Later, came an embarrassment of attention. The school newspaper printed my poem, a photo of me, and an interview. The question was asked, “When do you write poetry?”

I responded, “Just when I’m in the mood,” followed by a nervous laugh.

The headline read — His Moodiness Amuses Him. See what I meant by embarrassment? What high school boy wants to be thought of as moody? I wasn’t the athletic type, but I didn’t run or throw a baseball like a girl either. Moodiness was a term reserved for girly-boys. That wasn’t me, even if I wasn’t the fastest runner on the track. I have a long torso and short legs. I wasn’t built for speed.

From that day on, I thought of myself not as a poet, but an occasional writer of poetry. Defining me as a poet took many, many, more years and honestly, I’m still not sure I deserve that particular tag.

How about this for fun?

What about you? You who found the patience to wade through this post, how did you awaken to the writer in you? What is your story?  We could use The Red Hen Association’s website to publish your stories about your paths. Send a jpeg photo too and we will publish your story and your picture.

I read a discussion item posted by the LinkedIn professional group BookLink . To quote David Bennett who was responding to an invitation to introduce himself, “When I consider the changes over the past 10 years, I wonder how life will be in another 10 years! Incredible! I sometimes feel so overwhelmed by all these new ‘gimmicks’, ‘widgets’, ‘plug-ins’, ‘blogs’, ‘snippets’, etc. that I’d just like to lean back and breathe…” I got that. Is there anyone out there who doesn’t feel overwhelmed, confused, and not quite up to speed?

There are many in cyberspace claiming to know all of the secrets — but do they? Do they really? If you want access to those secrets it’s gonna cost you a bundle. Honestly I wish I had the kind of extra cash to learn what the experts know, but I don’t, so I’m feeling my way around in the dark and shinning a light on anything within reach that I find interesting. Those out of reach will just have to wait. My belief is that once something is learned it changes anyway, so how do you keep ahead?

Photo by Debbievators

My father was a computer programmer. The company employing him as an accountant decided to install computers and tested their employees to see who was the most trainable. Dad and one other man, Norm, got the jobs. Sometimes the computers were busy during the day, so my father would take me with him to keep him company at night. It was fascinating. Computers back then filled a large room and the support machinery took up nearly as much space.  The computing power of these behemoths was less than the typical cell phone now. Unlike computers and printers today which are virtually silent, the old Univac’s with their tape reels, the tractor-fed dot matrix printers, and the punch cards made a loud racket. Most of the readers of this blog will have never seen a computer punch card sent out with billings from power companies and the like. The instructions on the cards were very clear and became a joke, “Do not, fold, spindle, or mutilate.” Of course the reason for this was that the cards had to be returned in reasonable condition for them to feed correctly into the sorter.

By the time the PC tidal-wave hit the world, Dad was retired. He had worked with the computer languages COBOL and FORTRAN. Today’s programmers speak other languages based on many of the old ones, but more advanced. He bought a PC and tried to catch up, but he really couldn’t. Even with his years, and years of programming and systems analysis knowledge the technology moved too fast. He was left behind, but he was retired so it didn’t really matter.

When I get overwhelmed I like to reflect on the past. This blog has made me a little nostalgic. I don’t know how you cope, but writing, especially writing poetry helps me. And since I am a legitimate published poet, I thought it would be okay to share one of my poems with you. Maybe you’ll find some respite here.

Rocking Chairs

I wanted to write about a porch/ the kind my grandmother / had with a view of the street / and chairs enough to welcome / anyone to sit a spell and reminisce / about Tin Lizzie’s, nickle gasoline, / and Roosevelt, while taking turns / cranking the stiff handle / of the wooden ice-cream maker.

I wanted to write about the night / thick with cricket calls / and how just-picked peaches / mixed with rich cream / fresh from the morning’s milking / melted in the mouth like sweet / snowflakes caught on the tongue.

But most of all, I wanted / to write about the thrum / in my grandfather’s chest / as the conversation bobbed / like fishing line on the river / and how an old patchwork quilt / felt when wrapped around / a small boy held and rocked, / held and rocked, until the night/ folded into itself and disappeared.

Bill Ruesch