Image via Wikipedia
Never before have I considered attempting to write any poetry. Lately I have been conversing with a few friends on Plurk that are writing poetry. One of them Megan has set up a new site, Poetry Playplace, where she is doing a series 30 poems in 30 days. It’s an idea started by John Hewitt, but she missed this years edition. So she’s going to do the series herself, I believe as an exercise in writing. I thought it sounded like a good idea, and decided to follow her. Originally, I was not going to attempt writing any poems, but as she has gone along, I found myself drawn to her assignments.
The first assignment was "Write a poem about your childhood. Explore an actual event that has some emotional significance to you. Avoid using any description of how you felt about the event then or how you feel about it now. Instead, try to make the emotion of the event come through in your descriptions of what happened."
Now this is difficult for me, for a few reasons. The first, and probably hardest obstacle, is that I was brought up to not show emotions, for they betray your vulnerabilities to all including an enemy. The second is my inability to fathom some emotions, especially my own. When you add in the factor of childhood, a time in life of not understanding, yet wanting to learn, you add another level of difficulty.
I did a considerable amount of soul searching, and recalling childhood memories best left buried in the dark recesses of forgotten remembrance. How’s that for an oxymoron. I chose a time of my very young childhood, exactly how young I really don’t know.
We all went to a sitter that was know by all the kids as Grandma Clark, however she was not any of the children's grandmother. She was a strict disciplinarian to say the least, and had some very unusual beliefs. One of these was that left handed children were the spawn of the devil, and meant for no good. I was left handed, or at least showed tendencies to be left handed. While I was at her house, she tied my left hand behind my back until I became dependent on my right. So I guess you can say she truly had an effect on me and changed a specific aspect of my life. So that is what I chose to write my poem about, if you can call it a poem.
The Evil Left Hand
Everyday, I was consigned to her.
She was Grandma to all, hardly.
Always nice when necessary.
Until all parents disappear.
Turning to me, rope in hand.
Those words, I shall never unlearn.
"Lefties are, Devils spawn,
Righties a gift of God’s good."
Binding of the Devils spawn
brings forth Gods gifted.
Day after day, Months on end.
Perpetually timeless until return.
No longer will I be, Devils spawn.
Converted for her beliefs.
Never to be lefty predominantly.
Gifted to be, right handed.