Perhaps I had high expectations? When I was nine years old, I wanted nothing more than to be a famous poet, because they could use swear words without getting in trouble. I had discovered the deep, meaningful power of words, and, like Maya Angelou or Weird Al, I was truly gifted.

I would live the typical poet's life. I envisioned riding down the highway on my Harley, tattoos of Shakespeare, Yeats, and the Mud Flap Girl on my arms, ready at any point to doff a black turtleneck for smoky, back room readings. And when the Communists attacked, I'd zing them with alliteration until the Ruskies retreated ruefully to Russia, spreading tales of America's word-slinging poet defender.

My first poem was written on a construction paper Valentine's Day card. That poem, scribbled in the third grade, was inspired by the lovely, if gangly, young Carlene McGriffith:

Roses are red,
Dead ones are black!
Why is your chest,
As flat as your back?

It brought tears to her eyes, but Carlene never spoke to me again; my words were just too powerful. Like a Kevin Costner film, my talent remained misunderstood. I had built it, but nobody came, and my love of poetry eventually faded away, completely forgotten.

Until now.

Yesterday, I found a shoebox labeled, in my mother's handwriting, "Burn This". Inside was a journal filled with my elementary school poems. Even decades later, they're still awe-inspiring. They're amazing, unbelievable, un… Um…

Okay. I'll admit it. I don't understand a word of any of these poems. But isn't that the hallmark of truly brilliant poetry? I mean, everyone loves "Jabberwocky", a famous poem by Lewis Carroll that starts:

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Yeah… Huh? Is that poetry, or a monologue by Jodie Foster's character in Nell? I bet Lewis Carroll's third-grade teacher gave him an "F", too, just like the one inked next to the first poem in my journal:

Johnny Extra-Limb

So many people laughed at him,
While others showed alarm.
He caught the nickname "Extra-Limb",
Because of that extra arm.

Two normal arms on left and right,
With an extra one, at that;
It grew out from his head,
Was quite a problem for his hat!

But then one day, his fame came callin',
In the form of a town parade –
When a juggler kept the balls from fallin',
And he found his life's true trade!

And the journal is just filled with these misunderstood masterpieces! Some speak directly to the human condition, like this one on page three:

Upside Down Party, General Seating

Are you pink, Mr. Bubblegum,
Or are you blue today?
How's your tan friend doing,
Or that gorgeous glob of gray?

I sit atop my padded chair,
As little thought is spent,
Of the gummies hiding there.
(Say, must you pay the rent?)

Do you huddle there for warmth,
Or the friendship of the goo?
I guess it doesn't matter, for,
The janitor's come for you!

Does their simplicity, like "E=mc2", merely prove the genius of these poems? Or is it all relative — like dating in the South? I'm not sure, but speaking of wholesome goodness, here's another poem from the journal:

Willford Brimely

Shake, shake, shake that shaker,
Watch that salt which pours;
Take, take, take our Quaker,
And beat him behind closed doors.

Sink, sink, sink in oatmeal,
Inhale those soggy flakes;
Eat, eat, eat that Quaker,
No matter what it takes!

Ummm… Good!

If that poem makes you want to "gimble in the wabe", you're not alone. In fact, by now, you're probably thinking, "Andy's just writing this as an excuse to publish his crappy elementary school poems." Well, all I can say to that is, if you think my poems are crappy, then you haven't read my limericks yet! Like:

There once was a man from Algiers,
Who cried upon entering Sears,
"Oh so grotesque!
Take a look at this mess!"
But t'was only his face in the mirrors.

Okay, okay, so I never had it in me to become a famous poet. But at least there's one thing I can do now that will make everyone stand up and cheer:

I'm going to burn this journal, and maybe finally get that Mud Flap Girl tattoo.

Copyright © 2006 Andy Murphy
Please do not remove the copyright from this work.

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