About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
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Under the Table In early childhood,
as muted as a ghost,
I burrowed under the tables
to doodle and make up ditties, dodging
pain, harsh words, shattering
crystal, a family's fading with Daddy's
absence when he moved to his mother's,
and Mama, smoothing the wrinkles
on her skirt, said: "She needs him more,"
but one day, Daddy
knocked on the door and asked
for his radio, while I fidgeted
under the table in the hallway.
Mama, shoving him
a cardboard box, squeaked:
"Won't you see your daughter?"
The place grew still
until Daddy said:
"Ain't important."
Ever since that day,
I've been trying to improvise
my importance.
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Prompt:
Most of us, as children, had a secret hiding place or favorite spot to get away from our families and our ordinary lives. It might have been a spot in the woods, a fort in the yard or basement, a roof of the house, under the bed - or maybe it was just in your room reading a book as a means of escape. Write a poem about your place, and, if possible, a paticular event/incident you recall that made you seek it out.
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© Copyright 2006 Joy (joycag at Writing.Com).
All rights reserved.
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