Thursday, March 13, 2014

The Accidental Poet

  

"Mr. Hutchinson? Where are your poems?" Her sharp, screech like voice popped the bubble of my imagination. Even as early as the sixth grade I was lost in thought more often than not. Thanks to oncoming puberty some of the images were becoming more distracting than usual. As a result I was starting to perform poorly in school.

  "Your poems?" Mrs. Steed was a scary woman. At nearly six feet tall she always looked down on her students like she was readying her beak to snatch out our eyeballs and eat them. She reminded me of the Skeksis creatures from the Dark Crystal movie. There I was cringing in my chair like a helpless Gelfling.

  "I forgot..."

  "You forgot to write them?" She appeared ready to pounce. Was I about to loose a retina?

  "I forgot... that I left them in my locker." It was a quick, feeble lie but I was desperate.

  "Well then, go get them." With her long reptilian finger she pointed to the door.

  I escaped to the hallway, making sure never to show too much fear. I opened my locker and pulled out an empty notebook. The truth is that I had completely blown off the assignment. Poems were stupid! Why did everyone have to write them? Worse yet, why did the school feel it necessary to dedicate an entire book to them? That is what this assignment was all about. Each student was supposed to submit three poems with the hope that one of them will be good enough to be published. Personally I could care less but for fear of being put in a cage and poked with sticks, I scribbled as fast as I could.

  "Here they are." I handed over the paper hoping she wouldn't notice the fresh ink. I had written all three poems off the top of my head, printed them on a single page and signed the bottom.

  Her glance betrayed suspicion but she accepted it and sent me away. We agreed on one philosophy - done is done. You can't force quality, honesty or timeliness, you can only affect a result.

  Three months passed by without a word. Then one day at the end of class Mrs. Steed called me to her desk. As the other students filed out, we were left alone. I swallowed hard and waited.

  "Your poems..." She seemed stuck, like she was biting the word instead of letting it leave her mouth. "Well... congratulations Mr. Hutchinson."

  "Thank you?" I asked shyly, "For what?"

  "They were published." Her eyes pierced my veil of confusion. "No one told you?"

  "Ah, no. Which one?" This didn't seem possible. I didn't put more than five minutes worth of work into them, my poems couldn't possibly be any good.

  "All of them Mr. Hutchinson. All of them were published." That's when I noticed that she had a copy of the book on her desk. I waited for her to hand it over so I could see but she stopped me cold. She slid it in her top drawer covering something metal, something shiny. Then she shut the drawer and locked it. "You might want to ask a friend." Her grimace was probably unintended, Skeksis always look bitter even when they try to smile.

  Out in the hallway my awareness had peaked. Everyone was walking around carrying a copy of the book, bragging about the poem they got publish. Poem, singular but she said all of mine were used.

  "Good job Alex," said a fellow student of whom I have never spoken to before.

  "Nice poems buddy," commented another. He said poems.

  "Hi Alex." Regina said hi to me. Oh my God! The prettiest girl in town. The athletic, blonde haired, blue eyed dream of middle school acknowledged my existence. If I had died right then and there, my life would have been complete. What magical powers existed in these rhymes?

  I wandered the hallway accepting praise from half a dozen more people before finding a friend who showed me the book. All three poems had been published and everyone had read them, including and especially the girls. This was a revelation! I had always been a shy kid. I had always been quiet, invisible in the background but now everyone knew my name and I had a talent. I had found my calling. I was a poet.

  Wait a minute, I'm a poet? That's not what I wanted to be, it's not even on the list. Back then I knew that my imagination was a tool, no, it was weapon. Being a poet was out of the question, I was destined for far bigger things. This event was a fluke, it was a mistake. I was sure of it.