Soapbox

Stands With Mouth Open

I don’t really think that I’m a poet.
I’m not completely sure why, or if it matters…
there is no standardized exam that one must pass
to obtain the card that you carry around your neck
to earn the designation of a card-carrying poet.
It’s not a black or white thing here
where either you are or you are not-
unlike pregnancy I suppose one can be “sort of “ poetic,
kind-of…

I just don’t really think that I’m a poet.
I'm more a storyteller, which if you think about it
can also be a polite way of saying
“someone who is always talking”… which I am.
When I was three, my grandfather,
with swarms of grandchildren on his knees
could never get my name straight-
kept calling me Trixie or Trina…
but he knew who I was,
so he just called me “ Chatterbox”…
which was cute and endearing when I was 2 ½ feet tall
and had eyes like an animee character
but is generally considered a character flaw in adulthood.

If you’re always talking, you should at least have something interesting to say,
so since I spend so much time with my mouth open
I have tried to structure, and thereby validate
at least some of the sound issuing forth:
acting, singing, reciting “poetry”…
My mother used to tell my father “At least it’s a happy noise, dear” …
my husband perhaps tells himself “At least it’s poetic noise…”?

In elementary school reading and writing came easily to me
but I received, with hobgoblin-consistency
an “Unsatisfactory” in the box,  
“Refrains from Unnecessary Talking”…
which probably went on my permanent record,
and clearly follows me to this day
because honestly,  I still can’t tell what is unnecessary talking
so I can refrain from it…

Poetry, I’m told, is a sketch- not a painting-
an invitation, not the party: a taste, not the meal. 
A poem is an impression, a fleeting glimpse
through the twitching curtain into of the mind of the writer…
but me- I open the door, grab you by the arm and drag you inside,
offer you a drink, show you the new carpeting, ,
apologize for that spot on the ceiling where the roof leaked
and I haven’t gotten around to painting it yet…
…so much unnecessary talking.

And I don’t write with metaphors
of star-laden fingers drawing galaxies on my lover’s cheek-
not because I don’t love the imagery
but because I need to be sure that you know exactly what I mean.
Beautiful poems are like moving clouds or colored leaves
that swirl and float, scatter and reform,
suggesting different things to different people….
I rake my leaves into neat paths
and then bundle them into paper bags to set at the curb,
and say what you will about trite clichés- 
you know what I’m trying to say…
…even if you knew it before I said it.

I learned phrasing when I studied voice-
I would never take a breath in the mid-
dle of a word,
so I can make a story look like a poem on a page,
come in waves like a poem when I speak…
but I’m only telling you a story,
and when my story rhymes- I’m really only singing you a song, whatever I call it.

Although I often dream in poetry and write of dreams,
I just don’t really think that I’m a poet.
If I had been born 500 years ago,
perhaps I would have been a traveling bard:
a story-teller, historian, raconteur, commentator,
chronicler of the times,
wandering from town to town, welcomed for my news of the outside world
and amusing stories ….
Oh hell, who am I kidding?
I probably would have been burned as a witch,
but you see where I’m going.
Once there were no strict definitions,
no erudite graduate programs
dedicated to building walls between poems and mere stories.

So call all this noise of mine one long, grand epic poem…
call me Story-teller, Word-painter, Keeper of the family history, the Chatterbox,
She Who Stands with Mouth Open…   
I don’t really think that I’m a poet…
just a woman with a drawer full of sharp pencils.