Chicken Scratchings

Posts Tagged ‘Poetry Contest’

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.