I started writing poetry on a legal pad outside of my high school’s art room halfway through sophomore year. I never took Art. I just liked to sit there, back against the lockers waiting for friends. Maybe I just enjoyed the halls best when they were empty. I wasn’t in P.E. like I was supposed to be. But that was the will a teenage mind and an easily duped gym coach. By the time I graduated I had produced over 200 poems – free-verse anthems of my own development. I collected them, bound them, and made it all my “Senior Project.” To pass, I read one for a rather patient panel of teachers. I made a psychology teacher cry. The irony of that has aged like fine wine.
I left the island I grew up on still spewing poems like an open tap. It was my buoy. It carried me on every updraft and afloat in every colossal downturn. I wrote when I sang and wrote when I cried. I wrote for my friends, my enemies, and everyone in between. I wrote a poem for every dream and every nightmare. One for my uncle when he took me camping — one for a woman who hurt me – and I repeated that over and over again until I didn’t just have one book – but seven. Some people loved my writing. Other’s thought they were bit intense. I traveled the world. I got lonely. I fell in and out of love more times than I should have. I wrote a poem when my grandmother passed, and had it read at her gravesite when I could not attend.
Then, slowly, the tap started to trickle. I remember catching my own reflection in the plastic folio cover of my old collection and thinking – I’m different now. A switch had turned in my head. I put my pen down and looked at the stacks I’d created and wondered – what would making a poetry collection look like? What would it look like summarize my period of most dramatic development?
I read them all. I made sticky notes. I broke bindings and rearranged them. And when my collection coalesced, I smiled. There, upon its cover, was a single title. A title for over eight years of living. IN(TENSE). I didn’t know what to do with it – but I knew I didn’t want to stop there. I wanted it to be better. I wanted it to be reviewed. I only knew one person who had ever worked in publishing or editing – a coworker of mine. She was a most intelligent person. A kind person. But one I didn’t know very well.
I asked Jessica if she’d be open to reading and editing my collection because I had a dream I wanted to achieve. She accepted, and I handed over my heart. With a red pen, she set to work. When she’d finished there were comments on every page. There were lines to change and thoughts to expand. I took her to dinner in hopes of thanking her for taking the time. Her effort was extraordinary, and humbling. The way she held her wine glass was delicate. When she handed my book back to me, I took it. When we waved goodbye, I sat there wondering if the woman knew she still had my heart in her pocket.
My collection, IN(TENSE), is both the story of a wandering, developing young man – and the enduring symbol of the love of my life. As I tumbled into love with Jessica – I put the book down altogether. We built a life. We built a home. I married the girl with the red pen. When we saw our positive pregnancy test, we leapt for joy and wept for the loss of life together as we knew it. Somewhere, in the basement, my collection of poetry had waited. The red lines still gracefully and permanently drawn.
Then, one birthday morning, four years later, I unwrapped a surprise. It was a book. My book – bound and beautiful. My own name staring up at me from a hardcover. I looked up and saw my editor smiling over her coffee. She’d done it herself – just because she loved me. I am so humbled, and excited, to share that book with the world now. What started as a few lines upon a legal pad eventually revealed the love of my life, and the joy of the future ahead of me.
You can find IN(TENSE) available everywhere HERE.
Comments