Thoughts that never made it - Intro

Today, I'm going to start a series on words that never made it to print.  I like them so I'm going to put them here.

The first entry explains why:

Noisy crowds of words 

Live in my head

Clamoring for freedom

All want to go.

They drop from my mind 

And slip down my arm

To fall from my pen

One letter at a time

Strings of words,

Forming themselves into

sentences, stories, poems . . .

I wonder 

Where did they come from?

And who they belong to?

Sometimes writing is easy

sometimes it's hard,

sometimes I just feel

empty and used up.

Too tired to think

Weary from pen and keyboard

I need to rest and renew

Until words are once more

Jammed in my head

Screaming to be let out.

Then it feels good.  Like 

Putting a baby to an overfull breast

Ever mindful that the breast too

Needs to rest and fill up again.

  Marilynne

Unintended accusations

Last night I left one of my poems at moments of perfect clarity .

Julochka said of the quilt she had pictured that it had been made from clothing her children had once worn.  She always thought of them when she looked at it.  I related to that and thought of the poem.

I thought today that I would tell you a bit about the way this little ditty came to be.  

I was in my first writing class and I’d joined the class late.  Our teacher liked to knit while we read or discussed things.

On this day we were to write a limerick.  I’ve always loved writing limericks and this one popped into my head nearly whole, as my poems often do.

Writing Class

There once was a teacher of note
Who listened more than she wrote
To words of great wit as she sat and knit
Words and letters entangled became.

One day she spied a sweater
And remembered every letter
Of the words between the stitches she had knit
To the words she gave her name
To who belongs the fame?
To the sweater, or the teacher, or the wit?

(c) Marilynne Smith

There is an odd ending to my writing this limerick.  When I wrote it, I didn't realize there is an accusation here.  After all, I was only writing a silly little poem.  I was proud of it and told my teacher that since she was the inspiration for the poem, I was giving it to her.

Ah, unintended accusations.  My teacher never returned to the class.  I was only encapsulating a thought as a poem.  I meant nothing.  I did not intend to accuse her.

I've always felt I would have liked to apologize to her.  But then, would that be making it worse?  I don't know.  I just know that limericks tell a little story and that is the one I told.  It was nothing more than that and nothing less.

Marilynne