Song of Myself

1 I wanted to be the one who a game could focus around.

But I had to be off to the side,

making way for the stars of the hour.

When it was my turn to be the glorious focus,

the game was over.

It wasn’t fun anymore.

 

2 The front door was on the opposite side of the house,

not the door into the kitchen.

But the kitchen led to it all,

and there I would sit

with a box of crayons,

letting my imagination flow.

 

3 Chicken coop, burly pigs, cows.

The surrounding forest of spruce and pine.

Walk along the pasture to the vast expanse of nothing

but grass and hills framed by trees and river.

Maybe you were never a leading player in the games of spruce and pine.

Maybe you just were- watching and remembering

and regretting.

 

4 I used to wait impatiently for the moments I could spend with friends.

Now I treasure the friendships I somehow managed to keep a grasp on.

I used to love being the center of attention.

Now I remain hidden from the world.

I used to believe that everything I imagined was true if I just searched for it.

Now I dream of escaping my fears and vices.

I used to think all revolved around me.

Now I know that life is not something you can simply plan for.

I used to own the freedom of childhood.

Now I am older, but none the wiser.

 

5 Lying still, I realize how small I am.

Jutting shoulders, ribs, collar, cheeks,

no curves to me.

Little little wrists

that gain no muscle.

Only a tummy with all the volume.

When I was even smaller,

strangers would ask if I was ever fed.

I was, and am, but it doesn’t spread throughout me.

Just a tummy.

I don’t like that tummy,

or those jutting shoulders,

or those little little wrists.

A beanstalk with nothing to give.

 

6 Perhaps I’d stand up straight this time

look into the faces of those I pass

and smile.

 

Perhaps sadness and anxieties would not prevent me

from speaking and reaching out

holding onto friends and not letting go.

 

Perhaps I’d write letter after letter

with nothing to stop me from doing so;

no second guesses.

 

Perhaps if I could start over

I would be courageous, selfless,

a saint.

 

7 I am from near empty glasses, mugs, big blue cups

strewn about on every surface

from filled laundry baskets and stacks of paper.

 

I’m from “Bless us oh Lord” and Dad’s breakfasts

from “Now I lay me” and “Time to get up!”

from “Don’t be a sore loser” and Mom’s dinners.

 

I am from Sunday mass and Sunday rosaries

from giant Thanksgiving feasts

from waiting for people to “Wake up! It’s Christmas!”

And “We gotta get going, where are we going, whatta we gonna do?”

 

I’m from Phoebe Rose marrying a trader

from Duffy insignia

hanging on old wallpaper.

 

From all of our handprints lined up,

same as baby pictures

and family portraits.

 

8  Sharp intake

steady now

focused

calm.

Am I ready for you?

 

Soul flits from stomach to throat

hear that mutter beyond the curtain

Nothing else provides this feeling:

will I make you keel over with laughter,

glue you to your seat,

wrench your heart and bring tears?

Thank you, God

for letting me do something right.

That’s my cue

 

Sharp intake

steady now

focused

calm.

Are you ready for me?

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

verowenn

From an assignment based around Walt Whitman's format for his "Song of Myself"

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