Poetic

This week, I had the absolute pleasure of attending the release party for our campus’ literary magazine, NOTA. Just like last year, one of my poems ended up making the final cut, chosen as one of only 20 that would be featured in the semester’s issue.

Through my creative writing course this fall, I discovered that I am definitely a poetic-minded individual—especially when my attempts at a fictional short story were vainly executed, exposing to the class during workshop my obvious prosaic weakness. Yet the flowery language I cling to is thankfully embraced by publications like NOTA, and whenever I’m published, it’s an affirmation for me to keep on doing what I’m doing.

Apart from the magazine on campus, my poems have also been rendered in print by The Red Cedar and Volume One. Though I would have to say the bulk of my published work comes in the form of news releases, cover stories, branding pieces, and public relations materials that emerge from my desk at the University Communications Office. I also still produce freelance writing for my hometown’s local newspaper, but I’ll save the details of those two internships for another post.

The NOTA release party took place downtown at a venue called The Local Store. It’s the headquarters of the city’s Volume One magazine (which I mentioned above) as well as a gift shop and art gallery. It’s the kind of place that exudes hipster, and when I entered, I even felt the sudden urge to be wearing thick-rimmed glasses and an ironic T-shirt.

The night consisted of music, mingling, and invitations for the published authors to read—which I did. People at least seemed to enjoy my poem Breadline, and I hope you do too.

Breadline

I never understood the gravity of shame
Until my shoulders began to wilt like that lonely blossom in our sill
And the lines that carved my five o’ clock shadow inched lower
Toward unforgiving soil

Or how swiftly I plunged
From breadwinner to breadline
As angst replaced adoration in my little girl’s
Doey pair of sapphires

Now our polished loafers chug ahead
Like that locomotive rumbling by this afternoon
And beckoning me with its howling whistle
Causing weary heart to covet the spool of smoke
That rolled from the engine, liberated and eager
To escape into a boundless world
Away from here 

Where all I do is wait with this solemn herd of men
For employment to emerge from his hiding place
For Frankie and his New Deal
Or maybe for just the parcel of crunchy rye
That will hopefully tame those monsters
That continue to scratch at my children’s bellies
With menacing growls
All through the night 

Guilt sinks his unrelenting claws into my ashen flesh
And whispers darkly his spells of disgrace
Reminding me of that Tuesday, black and viscid
As the tar that congeals on feathers of fowl 

These men bury their calloused knuckles in the depths
Of their long trenches, perhaps also attempting
To camouflage embarrassment
In pleated somber hues and tailored trousers
And the bowlers pulled low over humiliated brows 

Now the sober-faced queue shuffles
Slowly, reluctantly
As if at the line’s end
Each will receive some form of deadly sentence and not
A crusty chunk of bread