Still writing, still growing, still open

Mentorship

She said write about what you know
I said I know nothing, that’s why I’m taking this course
That’s why I’m putting myself out there
That’s why I’m attending this mic-nite
That’s why my knees are knocking, and my palms are sweating

She said to start simple and just write, don’t edit
I said but my spelling’s atrocious and rhyming just isn’t my thing
Structure just isn’t my thing
Interaction just isn’t my thing
Spilling my guts and revealing my slip-ups just isn’t my thing

“She is a birch, a hazel”, she quoted this poet I’d never heard of
and waited for me to reply. I shook my head, said “no idea”, to which
she whispered, faint and remote, “a straight slender young rowan”
as she turned, walking away. I stood there in awe, I stood there expecting
a rush of excitement, I stood there at a loss for how to continue

to think I could write poetry. When I tried to leave, completely dejected,
the woman in the ratty pullover and tattered jeans at the back of the room
stopped me. “Don’t go. Don’t give her the idea that she’s broken you.
Don’t give up so fast”. I shook my head with a “Maybe she’s right. Maybe
I’m out of my league”. To which she replied, “She was once just like you.

Unsure and afraid of making mistakes. She persevered. She strived. She worked
her butt off. She made the words blossom, the lines flow, the poems express
the pictures she saw in her head. I should know for I am her mother, and she has
made me so proud. Sit here, next to me. She’ll stop by after she’s ripped
into the rest of them. She’ll talk and you’ll listen and learn. You’ll grow”.


© June 2019