This week’s theme for
Scribble Picnic brought back a memory of a poem I “wrote” years ago. It was an assignment for English class – I was probably 11 or 12 – but I just couldn’t do it. Poems are hard to write with all that rhyming and line structure and stuff.
“The …” No, scratch that. “This …” Nope. “Once ...” No, that’s not it either. I’m not writing a fairy tale. I need a good poem word to start with.
I was beyond frustrated. I had to turn in something for class. Anything!
Our home reference shelf was skimpy on poetry. Dictionary. Encyclopedia Yearbook 1959. Medical reference book. Sear’s Christmas catalog. Wait! A book of children’s stories and rhymes! Bingo!
In my defense, my intention was to take a look and get some inspiration but desperation is a powerful motivator.
I copied a poem. Yes, I confess. I plagiarized.
Mostly.
“This book is so old, no one will know. Whoever heard of this old poem? No one! It’s so silly,” said my inner demon.
“That’s cheating and just plain wrong,” said my inner angel.
“I’ll change it up a bit, make it my own. Easy peasy,” I said to the demon and the angel. “Now hush!” I opened my notebook and began to write.
Trees
I think that I shall never see.
(No, I never say ‘shall’, I’ll change that to ‘will.’)
I think that I will never see.
A poem lovely as a tree.
(Add ‘as’…that’s how I would say it.)
A poem as lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
(Cut this paragraph. What if I have to read my poem aloud? I can’t say breast in front of boys. That’s too embarrassing.)
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
(Oh, that’s nice. I’ll keep that in.)
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
(I’ll change robins to sparrows then it’s not copying word for word.)
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
(Bosom. Breast. Same thing. Take out this part.)
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
(This sounds like something I might write. I’ll leave this in.)
By Joyce Kilmer
(Change this to my name.)
A quick rewrite in my notebook and my homework is done!
Whew! I wrote my poem and could rest easy. The next morning, I handed in my assignment and didn’t give it another thought.
Until…
The next morning, my paper is returned.
A+
That’s the grade I got. Well, why not? It was a good poem. It had nice rhymes and everything.
My teacher was so amazed at me. “Did you write this?” he asked.
“Yes, of course,” I replied. Well, I had written it in my notebook, hadn’t I?
“YOU? You wrote THIS?”
“Yes! I wrote it!” Why is he picking on me? He can’t think I cheated. That book I used was so old.
“What gave you the idea?” he wondered.
“I don’t know. I was just looking out the window and thinking and thinking.” Does he see that I’m about to crack?
He quit questioning me. Was he waiting for a confession? Well, I couldn’t admit it now. I told him I wrote it and I was standing my ground.
He didn’t take away my A+. Whew. I’m sure in my whole life this was my one and only A+.
Now skip ahead three years…
Imagine my surprise. I’m sitting in Sophomore English class and thumbing through our textbook. When, hello, there it is. My poem!
Mostly, my poem.
If you made it this far, I hope you enjoyed my story and my little doodle of a tree, a cloud and a pair of sheep! Please stop by and visit other artists at
Scribble Picnic.
