“I am the blue nigella flower

You never expected to find

Particularly at this late sunset hour

You are the bird in the crepe myrtle trees

Perching and jumping and flying

On the smooth branches with no leaves”

9th grade

On the hunt for a distraction, I ambled over to my brother’s side of the desk, leaned over his chair, and squinted into the blue light emanating from the computer screen. My brother scowled at me for invading his space. 

“I’m not a poet, but this assignment looks fun,” I said, pointing at the “poem writing” homework on his Winter Break to-do list. Having successfully found a diversion, I issued a command. “Show me what it is.” 

“I am the sea of daffodils tossing

All too aware of how little time they have left to sing

Although knowing that they will return next spring”

It was an assignment for my brother’s online American History Through Literature course. His teacher assigned an endless stream of quizzes for her unlucky students, and as a dutiful older sister, it was my job to ensure that my brother completed every single quiz on time. In general, it was a thankless ordeal. Early in the year, when I sat down next to him to plan out the week’s work, he frequently pushed me away, reluctant to accept my advice. 

Yet this time when I sat down with him to work on writing poetry, he did not try to shove me away. After a few nights, we had over a hundred lines of doggerel, far more than the requirement. We were utterly hooked on poetry. No longer was the sky merely dark; it was “studded with stars,” “lively with meteors,” and “illuminated by the calm light of the moon.” No longer were our surroundings blurred and boring; they were glowing with the freshness of specificity. 

“You are the faucet, strangely juxtaposed

Living in a marble kitchen

Surrounded with the scent of rose

I am the lake with the fountains

Upon which elegant geese sail

Look up to see the devil mountains”

Several years ago, on the way back home from a visit to the optometrist’s office, I opened the black, vinyl glasses case and ran my finger over the soft microfiber cloth cushioning the precious cargo within. Even with my childish inexperience, I knew to be careful, so as not to damage the delicate metal frames. I picked up the glasses and unfolded them, then settled them on my face. The new nose pads pinched at the sensitive skin on the bridge of my nose, and the handles itched on the back of my ears. Nevertheless, I forgot my discomfort when I opened my eyes. 

I wasn’t aware that my view of the world was clouded over with the fog of myopia until I saw, through the lenses, everything resolved in dizzying clarity. 

So it was with me and poetry. When I settled my fingers on the smooth keyboard and began to type a poem, it was as though I had placed a pair of lenses over the imperfect orbs of my unobservant eyes. 

“You are the playground so colorful

It can be spotted from far away

Look at its swoops and curves so wonderful”

In the heady first days of our poetry writing, one of us somehow added the poem to Google Docs. Every word was stored in the Cloud, so we could edit the document simultaneously. Long after the assignment was submitted, poetry remained a shared obsession. My brother and I added poems nearly every day. We fed off each other’s enthusiasm, suggesting topics and ideas to each other. The new year came. Spring arrived. AP week steamrolled through. Classes ended. Summer started. We kept writing.   

“I am the fresh green horsetail

You’ll find me even a century from now

Still straight and narrow”

10th grade

I applied and was accepted to an online publication. This job entailed compiling my own poems, the poems of famous poets, and my analysis into a monthly column, which I would send to my editor by the deadline. Once I fixed my errors, I posted the finished column to the website, where many of my classmates and friends would read my work. My column received little traffic, except from my brother, who invariably posted a supportive comment. Even so, I was eager to seem sophisticated to my editor and meager audience. To that end, I decided that my poems had to be serious and revelatory, not just insignificant combinations of rhyming words. New anxiety was now bundled with the art of poetry. It made me forget important things: I forgot the happy clatter of my fingers flying over the keyboard. I forgot to ignore the tight nose pads and the weight of metal handles resting behind my ears. I forgot how beautiful the world was through a lens. I forgot poetry. 

“You are the blue and purple anemones

Colorful and joyful and free

Flowers that belong undersea”

Even in my forgetfulness, I still remembered something: deadlines.  I needed to submit a column by the 26th of each month. Combing the poetry document for my favorite specimens, I smiled to see some of my better works, and sometimes laughed at my brother’s additions. He did not seem afflicted with the same uncertainty, continuing to add poetry that, while usually silly, could also be surprisingly beautiful. They gave me a glimpse of the clarity I had enjoyed when I wrote poetry. With my brother’s poems, I could almost see a way out of the mist that had descended over my vision ever since I stopped working on rhymes, playing with meter, and figuring out alliteration. 

“I am the spiral staircase

Roping around a building up and back down

Run through in a breathless haze.”

One morning I woke up with a tingling in my fingers and an itching in my mind. It was the unmistakable feeling of needing to write a poem. I threw off my blankets, brushed my teeth in record time, and rushed to my laptop so I could write my poem. My enthusiasm evaporated as I opened the poetry document and noticed that the last time I’d added a poem was weeks ago. I pondered. What was stopping me? My pride as a poetry columnist? The fear that no one would take me seriously if they saw me struggling to fit words together into a coherent poem? “Damn the torpedoes,” I thought, remembering my brother’s bold writing, and blazed full speed ahead to the tune of my keyboard clanking under my fingers. A strange sensation bloomed in me, like I was remembering something. 

“You are the green, waxy pine trees

So high they kiss the clouds

And bring the masses to their knees”

Reinvigorated, my interest in poetry mushroomed once again. Never content to keep wonderful things to myself, I organized a poetry recital in March and spent a pleasant hour reading poems with my friends. Even my brother came to support my event. What had I remembered? I had remembered poetry. I had remembered to take it out of its black vinyl case, musty but unsmudged, slip the handles behind my ears, and let the world resolve into brilliant focus. 

“I am the wind rustling the leaves

You are the leaves rustling in the wind

Together we take on the park

Where children lark and dogs bark

Adventure lurks in every part

For those who seek: so take heart.”

11th grade

Summertime arrived with the end of AP week and the end of my tenure at the e-zine. I considered re-applying to the online publication.  Should I return to my post as poetry columnist? Or strive to the higher echelons of editor?

I stared into the blue light of the computer screen, trying to decide which application to pick. War was waged between my poetry-columnist side and a new, as yet undefined aspect of myself. I woke up the next morning to find that sleeping on it hadn’t helped and the fight was still going. Setting the battle on the back burner, I opened my poetry document and started to write.

Even then, while I lacked any official position, I was still writing poetry. These poems came from something deep inside me that would not be corralled by such insignificant obstacles as title names. The battle lost its significance. I had fought to reclaim the poet in me, and I knew she wouldn’t go down so easily.

Thus, I filled out my application for the position of editor. Months passed while I eagerly awaited word of whether I had been accepted. Then I received an email.

“Unfortunately the position you applied for is already filled. However, we would love to offer you a job as poetry columnist.”

The poet in me had survived.

Tell me I’m not a writer, and I’d nod in agreement. Writing may be a tool I have long sought to master, but it isn’t an integral part of my identity.

Tell me I’m not a poet, and I’ll look you in the eye.

And I’ll say two words: “You lie.”