Well, it’s National Poetry Month, and just a few days into April, I’m already seeing friends posting some of their favorite poems on social media. In the years before mommyhood, writing poetry was something I lived for. It helped me format my thoughts in different stages of my younger life. So for the sake of being vulnerable and having a laugh, I’m going to be sharing some of my best and worst stuff during the month of April.
I really started to love reading and writing poetry in high school. What else do you do when you have SO. MANY. FEELINGS. and no musical talent to speak of? I didn’t play sports in high school, but I was in our literary magazine club, Gallimaufry. We met on Tuesday nights after school, doing writing exercises and prompts and giving each other feedback. I learned about the poet Billy Collins, and even saw him do a poetry reading at Oakland University with friends and our club’s faculty advisor.
My dear high school friend Andrea was (is!) a wonderful poet, and she’s the one who got me into Gallimaufry. She would carry around these notebooks she collaged and decorated on the inside and out, pages from old books cut out and pasted in the corners of pages. Often, The Beatles were on the covers of the notebooks. She wrote in them all of the time, crafting poems, writing down ideas for titles in the margins.
When she presented me with my very own notebook as a Christmas present our junior year in 2001, it was truly one of the best gifts I had ever received.
I’ve had this notebook for over 16 years, and in more ways than one, it serves as a scrapbook and a time machine for my high school and college life. Tucked inside almost every page is a ticket stub, dozens of fortunes, postcards, and photographs.
One of the “rules” Andrea wrote in the front of the notebook is that I needed to write things down in the notebook before putting them on a computer. “Computers can break. This book is forever” she wrote. I didn’t realize at the time how correct she was. I don’t know how many dozens of pieces of writing have been lost on dead laptops over the years. This is a book I’ll never get rid of, and it will certainly either embarrass or enlighten my girls one day.
The first poem I’m going to share was written on 12/30/01. I called it “A State of Weather / Dreams of Malibu.” Considering it snowed this morning in typical Michigan spring fashion, it feels like a good one to share today. Warts and all.
I’m looking forward to revisiting the high school Stefanie this April for National Poetry Month. I hope you enjoy it, too. As much as one might enjoy feeling awkward and uncomfortable on behalf of someone else.
A State of Weather / Dreams of Malibu
By: Stefanie Spiro, age 16
I knew I was never made for this weather.
Walking on top of the snow
creaks kind of like an old floor
it’s been here awhile
still makes the same noise
I’d love to live in a place
like Malibu, California
and it would be so glamorous
“Oh me? I live in Malibu.”
You’d think the plastic would melt
under the sun but shine they shine
mini stars are bought at their convenience stores
and placed in the corner of mouths,
teeth bleached like hair
and skin with sun remedies
found on a beach in Malibu
beautiful = Malibu
Drive cars without hats just to feel free in the air
passing faces as they hit a highway
these breezes don’t chill
don’t hurt to breath
you want to breath the air just to say
there’s Malibu inside you.
In my snow globe there’s a wonderland
based on the whites of our dreary eyes
and in this wonderland
angels are imprints of our own bodies
arms are wings
unable to find their true purpose,
shrugging at our sides
when asked what to do
when we’re bored of sledding,
tired of the cold.
Across the void lies a strip of paradise
that exceeds any wonderland
Sun’s like 7/11
living 24/7.
They strip down their clothes
like shells
down to thin layers
I wish was our uniform.
Never had the dark DNA
like Michigan in a birthing room,
born with untouched skin
not even tainted by the sun,
barely living
and hooked up to life support.
Malibu’s summers were sacrificed
for Michigan’s sake.
The heated heart still beats,
only reason we’re still alive.
Okay, so I honestly can’t say I remember what the heck that ending is supposed to mean, but the rest seems pretty legit. Now I just need to figure out why we’re still living in Michigan even though I’ve clearly had thoughts about warmer pastures for quite some time now.
So, that wasn’t so bad. But don’t worry. There’s more to come. This is a pretty full notebook.