I don't really do poetry

I think most of us fancy ourselves poets as least once in our lives, especially when we're told to write a poem in school.

I prefer poems that have a clear meaning while managing to be lyrical. It probably stems from my frustration with poems that I couldn't understand as I analyzed them in college classrooms. See, my problem is I tend to take things literally before I start seeing them as symbols. For example, in a college English course, I read the poem "Barbie Doll" by Marge Piercy. I thought it was about a woman who had become so unsatisfied with her body that she cut her nose and legs. In reality, the character had plastic surgery and apparently died of complications.

Of course, the meaning was fairly obvious once I heard it. Still, when I read these things, I tend to think, "Why not just say that with pretty words?"

So, when I have written poetry, I find myself trying to be deep and slightly symbolic and clear and--for lack of a better word--poetic, only to end up being obtuse. I'd still like to think though that any poems I've written (mostly ones I've had to write for class) have had a clear message.

So, in the spirit of knowing I will never be a poet, I present this specimen written in a moment of poetic hubris. I wrote it for a science and nature writing class after spending some time outside and wondering what I should write about. I remember sitting in a gazebo and seeing an ant crawl near me and later realizing that dirt was part of nature and it was literally everywhere. I may have also gotten the impresson that sitting in the gazebo was getting dirt on my clothes as well because that's what I tend to think when I'm outside.

As is obvious, I had some fun with the physical form because poetry amirite?

Aschenputtel, etc.

“A bit of earth—

“She wants a little bit of earth.

“She’ll plant some seeds.”

But can she not find it everywhere?

Dirt, sand, soil, earth.

Housing our trees, nourishing our flowers, displacing protein and cartilage as organisms decompose.

Soot on her dress.

Cinders on her face.

Wind and water buffet the rocks, creating sand and sand and more sand—the creation of multicolors, flavors, textures, and sands of time in the hourglass.

Ash exploding from the earth, burying a city.

Rendering it forgotten.

Grainy, rocky, dry, moist.

Dust on the mantelpiece.

Layered by time and settled by abandon.

Irritating pink membranes until covered by cream—desirable when hardened.

In the cracks of your skin, caked under your nails.

Scratching your eyes as your slide into home base.

Seeping into the lungs, sickening and clogging oxygen.

In the black mud pie.

Made fresh to order—heavy on the water, light on the gravel.

Sometimes free of dirt’s impurity but never free of its elements.

For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.

Too deep? Too shallow? Too much? It's whatever at this point.
So the enchantment is this: you can write poetry even when you're not a poet, and no one can stop you.