Things we forget

I used to fancy myself quite the poet. I've written entries in here before about how naturally writing poetry used to come to me, and how now, it's a much more difficult process. I used to write without really thinking about it. I'd have pen and paper, and just start writing, and seconds later, I'd have a poem, that now, years later, I look at and think "wow, I wrote that? that's pretty deep"...or something along those lines.

Nowadays, whenever I attempt to be poetic, everything seems to feel contrived, and it just doesn't work anymore. Can someone STOP being a poet? Or am I just going through a dry spell? Who knows...

But back to my history as a "poet". It was during that time of poetic abundance that I entered one of those "poetry.com" contests...although, I'm pretty sure back then it wasn't through the internet, most likely it was something I mailed in (this was 1998, when the internet was available, but not all consuming, as it is today). Anyway, I never "won" the contest, but had the opportunity to have my poem published in a "book" which was then sent to me...a book which I PAID HIGHLY for, but I was young, and although I knew it was a scam, I allowed my parents to talk me into buying it anyway, because it would be cool to see my poem published in a book along with other poets' work. I had forgotten all about my involvement in this until Saturday, when my cousin e-mailed me a link to their website, so that I could enter their latest contest, because among my family, her and I are known as the creative ones. It was then that I remembered, and searched my name on their website...sure enough, there was my poem...how weird. I'd forgotten about the poem itself. And the memories those few lines brought up in me...how fascinating.

I still think the whole poetry.com thing is a scam. They probably make tens of thousands of dollars off poor suckers (like me) who just want to see their words in print somewhere. And yet, I had a moment of pride, and nostalgia, and...accomplishment, at seeing MY WORDS on the internet, somewhere other than a blog...how great is that?

Anyway, this is the poem that I'm talking about:

"Wrudu"

He speaks of miracles
that have yet to unfold
he speaks fondly
of stories long ago told
he speaks a thousand words all at once
of the way things will be
he speaks of futures to become
the very breath of me
secrets kept, he speaks of
as if each his own
tears wept, he speaks of
look how fast we've grown
then, he speaks slowly
of the reasons he lives
picking up speed with each word
and each thought he gives
he speaks of loving and dying
two faiths in which we all fall
he speaks of giving up trying
and then . . . says nothing at all.

Copyright ©2007 Sonia K. Ruas