Throwback Thursday: Poem

I find it so interesting to go back and see what and how I wrote as a child and teen.  For many of my stories I can still remember the writing process, the thought process, how the story actually looked in my imagination versus how it turned out on paper.  Why not have a little fun with it and share one of these old pieces every Thursday in the popular "Throwback Thursday" theme?

Poetry is not my strong suit, though I do have quite a collection of poems anyways.  This one was written around the age of 13, and the visual prompt was a Georgia O'Keeffe painting of a black iris.  I remember that a year or two later I also translated the poem into Hebrew, but my computer won't open the file so I can't revel in how basic my Hebrew was at the time.

So here's a taste of 13-year-old Devorah.

Black Iris

It is not easy being a black iris.

People step on me, walk right on, not caring. 

My pink and gray petals are stomped on,

Smashed into the ground.

It angers me, being treated so.

A small child looks down at me and sighs.

She carefully picks me up

And cradles me in her arms.

The girl gently rinses my petals.

She puts me into a pot of soil on the windowsill.

The sun shines on me and helps me grow.

She gives me water and tells me how pretty I am.

I know that she is my friend.

I am strong again, bigger and prettier than before.

The girl takes me out of my pot,

Being careful to keep me in one piece.

She plants me beside the sidewalk,

In the same place as before.

Now I am too pretty to step on or ignore.

The girl visits me every day without fail.

She builds a small fence around me,

Protecting me from uncaring feet.

Bees are always buzzing around me,

Helping me even as they help themselves.

Other flowers start to come alive around me,

And the girl makes a bigger fence.

I am part of a garden now, not just a lone flower.

People stop when they see me,

Bending over and gently touching my petals.

I am no longer something to be ignored.

I am something to be admired.

I am treasured for two months, perhaps more.

I start to feel drained, tired.

The girl has faithfully watered me all this time,

Faithfully pulled weeds from my soil.

I can no longer hold my petals up, and I start to droop.

The girl looks at me sadly and straightens my stem.

I am at the end of my short days.

I begin to be overlooked instead of cherished.

The girl digs me up from my soil,

Tears standing in her eyes.

She puts me on a heap of grass cuttings,

Detritus to be disposed of.

I plead with her in my mind, but she doesn’t hear.

I am collected into a bag of weeds and dead leaves

And deposited into the alley,

Awaiting the garbage men.

I cry silent and invisible tears.

I know my fate, and am ready to accept it.

I live out my last hours as a pretty flower

Sitting in a garbage can and thinking.

In the Beginning...

I still have the first story I ever wrote.  The pages are yellowing and a little crumpled, and partway through you can see where my six-year-old handwriting is usurped by nine-year-old handwriting when I decided to add on to the story later.  It's a beautifully awkward story, full of all the holes and jumping from thought to thought that you would expect from a child's imagination.

Ever since that first story, that first time I realized I could put transfer my hyperactive imagination onto paper and actually make something of it, I have been in love with writing.  I treasure the eight pages of a story from third grade, when I stayed up well past my bedtime to finish it in time for class the next morning.  I remember my teacher stopping me in the middle of my reading it out to the class, because already at that age I was long-winded.

I remember my seventh grade English teacher writing on one of my stories, "I can't wait to buy the first book that you publish!"  And my eighth grade English teacher not knowing what to say when I handed in a folder for a short story assignment because the story was too long for me to staple.  Then in high school I was exposed to new genres, including journalism (not my forte, to say the least) and new styles of creative writing I had never heard of before.

After that my writing got pushed to the side.  There's something about moving across the world by yourself at the age of 18, attending university in a foreign language, and having children and all that comes with them - or that doesn't, like sleep - that pushes writing and other enjoyable hobbies to the sidelines.

This blog is meant to be both a challenge to myself and a therapeutic outlet to express myself amidst my hectic life trying to balance motherhood, couplehood and work.  I challenge myself to write a weekly post, purely for my own edification, and along the way to explore new genres and styles of writing that I'm less comfortable with.  I was given a gift for words and words make me happy.  If I don't seize the opportunity to make something of this gift, then what was the point of having it to begin with?

"If I am not for myself, who will be for me?"