The Orchid

I was an anxious child. Always worried that I was letting people down, and often finding myself bending over backwards trying to please people that really didn’t care to much about me or the effort I put in to things.

I first started writing poetry when I was about 9 years old. Though I had often composed works, I never wrote them down, since I felt that they were not good enough-I always measured myself by an odd set of standards that set me up to always fall somewhat short.

We will be writing poetry, my teacher informed us; now don’t worry, just fill in the forms, and you will see that it’s not that hard.” My teacher handed out pre written forms which students could pretty much complete by filling in the blanks. While everyone in my class was writing the typical “roses are red” fare of poetry, I just sat there, staring at my blank form. It was generic; it was bland; how could my teacher expect me to create something meaningful when I was surrounded by ceaseless chatter?

I realized that what I needed, was a comfortable environment; this does not necessarily mean dozens of lit candles, and romantic music, but perhaps a location that meant a lot to me; and that it could be anywhere. Remember, poetry is about you; even if the subject is about someone else. Surround yourself with what relaxes you.

I remember asking my teacher if I could complete my poem at home, since I needed to think not about what I wanted my poem to say, but about how I wanted my poem to say it. I distinctly remember her telling me that it was not rocket science, and that I should fill in the blanks on the handout. Finally, she decided to let me take it home. Thinking that I hadn’t overheard, she told the student teacher that I was a bit slow at times, and not to expect much.

Though I did not know what subject, or even what form my poem would take; it didn’t concern me. As I listened to my sister practice her operatic studies, I stared at an orchid plant in front of me. Closing my eyes, and listening to the distant sound of the ticking metronome, I let myself fall into the rhythms surrounding me, and started to write. Within 15 minutes I had my rough poem; and in another 20, had my finished product. I was not surprised at my efforts; rather, I knew that I had it in me; it was just a question of finding a comfortable environment.

The next day, when I handed in my assignment, my teacher scanned it quickly and promptly accused me of copying it from somewhere. “It sounds suspiciously Shakespearian” she said. I could not contain my anger, and replied “While my work might be good, and I take your comment as a compliment, I think that Shakespeare might be insulted: since this poem is not worthy of his most base works.” My teacher narrowed her eyes, thinking I was somehow insulting her. “One poem does not make you a teacher,” she said.

The student teacher asked to look at my work, and loved it. “No, one poem does not make you a teacher,” she said but it does make you a poet.” She beamed at me and asked if I had any other written poems. “They’re in here,” I replied, tapping my temple “and when they’re ready, they’ll come out; but not before they or I am ready to face them.” My teacher sniffed; telling me that it wasn’t exactly what she had asked me to write…and that she didn’t see how I could expect a good mark.

The odd thing was, I didn’t care! I set out to do something I had never really done; to write a poem, for, as it were, public consumption. I realized that it wasn’t about trying to please people by writing what they felt their definition of poetry was, but to let a small part of myself out into the world; something that no one had the right to edit; but had the right to experience. And, 26 years later, I have never looked back. My first poem, at the age of 9:

The Orchid

Ever leafy, seldom blooming

now it’s heart is ever beating

Sunshine, water ever needing,

always waiting, never fleeting.

Then a flash, nay a gleam,

of color lovely, scent supreme.

Fading, crumbling, no more dew

only to arise, once more anew.

Giving beauty, scent supreme,

colors lovely like a dream.