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I am, at best, a mediocre poet.

Less than mediocre. A non-poet. The converse of poet. The negative space that might exist if a poet was to implode or was sucked into a black hole or was acted upon by some terrific and terrifying laws of physics and mysticism. A stock broker.

You see, the fragments of this post have been sitting on my hard drive for weeks. Why? Because the post was waiting for a poem. And, I couldn’t even squeeze out a haiku. A haiku!?!

(I know I just totally degraded the haiku with my last remark. This only serves to exemplify my mediocrity. I understand that, especially in its native tongue, the haiku has been elevated to brilliance. Why, then, am I making fun of the ol’ five-seven-five? That’s why. Because I’m lame. Because I’m still thinking of the art form in terms of the ol’ five-seven-five. Because when I write haiku, I count the fucking syllables on my fingers!)

(Sorry, mom, for dropping the ol’ f-bomb. It just seemed entirely appropriate right then…)

So, out of the gutter and onto the poem… The seed of this poem-post was planted when, as I sat with a group of women and their luscious babes, I witnessed little 5-month-old Selma asleep on her mother’s shoulder sucking her thumb in blissful contentment. It was absolutely inspirational. So, I thought: I’m so damn gifted, I just know that am being called on to immortalize this moment with my handy pen and my wizardous word craft.

I didn’t really think that. That would be dorky.

But, I did head to the bar. I mean, if I can’t write like a poet, I can live a poet’s life. Right?!?

Let me illustrate: I started this post on a napkin while I sat alone at a bar drinking high-gravity beer out of a goblet and not a mug. I was killing time before meandering up the street to watch a semi-professional production of Jesus Christ, Superstar that featured one of my artista friends. I wrote, on my beer napkin, J.C., Super and then drew a star. Just after writing that cute little rebus, my therapist called me. And, I had to admit that I was alone. At the bar. While my 5-month-old and my husband lay at home in their beds. And, yes, I was writing poems on a napkin. How very Bukowski of me…

So yeah, aside from sounding like a wanna-be beatnik straight out of Barfly, I do believe that poetry is everywhere, every minute of every day. It is in the way that my son is (well, was) looking up at me as I type this (like three weeks ago). With his chubby lips puckered around his thumb, smiling and oooohhhhing and seeming to find the divine in the simplest things. The shake of a water bottle, the glean off a wooden bed knob.

But, a poem, I could not write. Not even a haiku. Not without making it cheesy. Not without titling it something like “On Destiny’s Shoulder”. Kind of like “On the Wings of Love” or that song from Karate Kid II “Just like a knight in shining armor from a long time ago. Bum, bum, bum, bum, bum. Just in time to save the day. Take you to my castle far away…”

No. No poem here.

Still, I owe it to Selma, to Destiny (I should mention that Destiny is the name of Selma’s mother. See the clever play on words?) and to myself, to honor that moment in some way.

A letter, I can write. So, while there is no need to show Selma all of the lead up (especially the nasty language), here goes…

Dearest Little Selma,

By the time you are old enough to read this, you may not even know who I am. However, I hope you do. I had the great fortune of meeting you when you were only a few weeks old and you were such a gorgeous, innocent little peanut. All curled up and squeezed tight. At the time of this letter, you are a few months older. You look like your father. You are quiet and curious and petite. You are starting to eat big girl foods and make exotic, inquisitive noises. I can already tell that you are going to be very hip and thoughtful.

A few weeks ago, I was sitting next to your mom, and watched you resting on her shoulder. You had your thumb in your mouth and your eyes closed and I could tell that you were, perhaps, the most blissful little soul on this earth. You both looked so content and beautiful that I wanted to write a poem. But sadly, I’m not a very able poet. So, I thought I would just tell you about it instead. Most likely, you won’t remember exactly what it feels like, but I hope, in times when you most need it, you can somehow recall how it felt to rest on your mama’s shoulder. So quiet and safe. Surrounded by so much love.

You should also know that sometimes your mom calls you “sister”. As in “see you, sister!” I think she does this because she is also aware of your budding hipness.

Of course she is. She’s your mama.

Well, Selma, it has been fun watching you grow.

Most sincerely,

Emily Marjean Coolbeth, Silas’s mother, the un-poet.

This entry was posted on Friday, April 4th, 2008 at 2:53 am and is filed under Favorite Posts, On Friends and Family. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.