How I Came to Poetry

The first poems I ever saved are from Mrs. Appy’s Ninth grade English class in a folder labeled simply ‘Poetry.’ 50 years later I can’t for the life of me locate it but I can see its contents–the ditto ink is faded but still quite legible. There are selections by Richard Brautigan and e.e.cummings, of course, and a poem by Robert Frost. Also something about John F. Kennedy’s assasination. Sigh.

I think about Mrs Appy often and wonder if she knew our future selves would want these poems for posterity. I’m sure I was much more focused on how I’d be working on my tan at the beach come the weekend. Southern California was a hard place to be in school during the lovely months of late May.

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The love of words and language has always drawn me in, long before 9^th grade. I have vivid recollections of my 12-year-old self hiding in my bedroom with a book, away from the noise and chaos of a busy houseful of siblings. Our home was a fractured place at best; absent, inattentive parents and an overworked mother made life tenuous at times. Little Women, Freckles, Rose in Bloom…these are some of the classic stories that filled my heart with presence and beauty and peace I craved. At least in books there were people who cared for and loved each other.

Reading and writing are often intertwined; all those stories led to inventing some of my own. My make believe dreams began to take shape first in the loopy pencilled pages of elementary school newsprint. Pencils gave way to typewriters where I fumbled madly on the Smith-Corona typewriters in middle school and high school typing class. I graduated to a computer keyboard many years later as a young mother, pocketing away time at my husband’s desk.

While raising our two children I did very little writing or reading, but did manage to stumble upon the work of Luci Shaw—a Christian! A poet! Who knew? (I still have my copy of her first book, Listen to the Green, 1973, which she graciously signed for me 45 years later.) The seeds of poetry were planted.

I continued to manage stealing away to write amidst parenting, typing out my rambling thoughts, particularly about education. I had thoughts.

My Name in Print

I eventually had several Letters to the Editor and essays published in our local paper—the Fresno Bee—one of which I was actually paid $75 for. Even Instructor and People magazine printed some of my musings. Of course, being featured in a Letters to the Editor column didn’t pay, but it was something just to see my name in print.

After my children were on their elementary school way, writing fell by the wayside and my words languished when I went back to school as a “re entry student” to pursue a teaching degree. There was simply no time for creative pursuits. After graduation and with my newly minted teaching credential I jumped into teaching and then blinked. Twenty plus years had gone by and the writing bug was still there. Our children were grown and in college when someone mentioned blogging as way of ‘getting published.’ I thought I’d give it a try; the year was 2012.

Did I mention I blinked?

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Behold, the Website

Our family had relocated from California and had been in Seattle over 20 years by then and found ourselves in January of that year completely snowed in. For a week. My kids weren’t driving to school, and I certainly wasn’t slogging to my classroom anytime soon.

So, I Googled “What’s a blog?” As one does. One week later I had a website, Three Way Light.1 Thank you, Blogger.

I also discovered an online community of Christian writers called ‘The High Calling,’ overseen by then-editor L.L.Barkat. The internet provided virtual parchment and I dove into writing and never looked back.

I did not write poetry.

My focus? “The intersection of faith and life” a broad-brush stroke of amorphous intent if there ever was one. The essays and reflections on my author site ranged in content and random reflections as I waxed eloquent on any and everything through the lens of life as a Christian. I had thoughts, especially about teaching and parenting. (See Letters to the Editor above.)

However, after a decade of writing online, as well as being featured in various print publications, I began to reassess my center of attention. When one is, ahem, a certain age, one’s legacy to those who come behind looms large. If I was going to devote my time to writing, what really mattered most? Where was I going to invest my finite amounts of time? It took time to decide.

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Poetry it was.

I began by reading the work of other contemporary Christian poets: Tania Runyan, Luci Shaw, Malcolm Guite, and others, then buying their books, going to workshops and attending panels and readings. Each one of these writers was beyond gracious and encouraging, putting up with my newbie naiveté and questions. I was hooked.

I went all in on poetry in early 2018, reading, reading, reading. Well, and fangirling. The circle was complete when I was able to meet Luci Shaw in person to tell her what a difference her words had made early in my life. She sat for awhile and listened with great interest, something I will always treasure.

I continued to practice writing poetry, doing it badly of course, then with the help of teachers and editors eventually was privileged to find two “slender volumes of modern poetry” out in the world. (Malcolm Guite’s phrase).

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My grandkids still aren’t sure about the legacy I’ve left them. The five oldest grandkids range in age from 14-23. The youngest one is 6 and has no opinion. “What’s a poem?”

“Your books are pretty, Nana, but your poems don’t rhyme.”

Ahhhh, the inspiration of grandkids… Maybe someday they’ll reach for one of my books to read a poem like the one below and say to a friend, “My Nana wrote this. May I read it to you?”

And the poetry seed will grow….*

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My Grandkids Asked Me

Complaints are afoot in certain close quarters

That my poems don’t rhyme, they’re merely imposters.

The grandchildren ask me, “Is that how you write one?

I’m not really sure, Nana, your kind’s the right one.”

“There’re no matching endings, really no reasoning.

It’s like eating roast beef without any seasoning.

Tasteless and boring, and lacking all color,

We honestly think that there’s nothing  duller.”

Well fine, I give up, I’ll leave free verse behind,

And because I’m your Nana, exceptionally kind,

I’ve put pencil to paper, all right, I can show ‘em

Read on my dear lovelies, for here is your poem.”

*from the Wayfinding section in my book, “Mining the Bright Birds-Poems of Longing for Home.”