A million years ago is, of course, an exaggeration. It feels that way because this year I realized I didn’t know or maybe didn’t appreciate poetry. There are some posts about that. I took it upon myself to dig further, found that I had some interest in poetry in the past, and even found some I could explore right now. Still, it doesn’t seem to call to me, except the poetry of music. If I am honest, though, I don’t listen to music that often anymore either.
What changes in our being and in our brains that shunts something off to a siding and away from the main rail (I love trains, but that’s a future story)? In this case, it is a forgotten bit, left on that siding and a bit overgrown with the cobwebs of time. Then there is now, where I have found the folders of the stories I’ve kept for half a century. Turns out that in 1965, I started writing poetry as an assignment in my new English Composition class at the Lenox School for Girls in New York City.
Sidebar (don’t see how to make one yet): The Lenox School for Girls is now The Birch Wathen Lenox School and as of 1974 it has been co-ed. Still exists, though. The class of 1970 just had their 50th year reunion. I was there 5 years before that. Time Warp – I’m not that old. LOL! It’s a college preparatory school, and they still wear uniforms, but I wonder if they still learn the courtesies of polite society. I learned to curtsey and eat with the correct fork, studied art history and learned to paint (sold a piece of chalk art to a department store), played basketball and volleyball, got nearly fluent in French, and generally was set upon a life of culture and learning. Still have the annuals to show I was there!
Back to my ancient poetry. Well, not yet. There were other writings I thumbed through first. I found a story we wrote about a memorable experience. Mine was standing in a doorway at Fordham University during an electrical storm when a bolt of lightning struck the dormitory across the street. There was construction going on and it was empty, but that was a big deal for an 11-year-old from Seattle who had no concept of forked lightning! Then a composition about my favorite place. That was my grandparents’ farm in Maple Valley. Still drive past it from time-to-time. Oh, and the story about Jim Jacobs, who became a friend of the family during our years in NYC (1965-67). He was larger than life, to me, and a good friend to the family. Jim was a hall of famer handball player. Not a sport you hear much about these many decades later, but the USHA still exists and has a bio. In 1970, he was awarded “Greatest Handball Player of the Generation.” I still have an old phone number and address of his around. He died in 1988 at the age of 58. Wonderful man.
Then the poetry. The Seasons, Good-by My Love, The Ship Bounty and Its Captain, The Old Lady from Peach, From Sunset to Night, and one simply labeled “Haiku.” From the content, it is clear that we were doing a series of poetry types. The one about the seasons is painful to read, but I’m glad I kept the whole series. Good-by My Love is evocative of the times as it is about someone leaving for Vietnam. What could I have known about that feeling at the ripe age of 12?
Good-by My Love by Cathy Champion (I had not yet changed the spelling of my nickname)
To Vietnam my love did go,
He went so far away,
My love left me in woe,
He left me yesterday.
He left me standing all alone,
He went so far away,
“Good-by” my broken hear did moan,
He left me yesterday.
He’s gone-o-gone to fight a war,
He went so far away,
I may not see my love any more,
He left me yesterday.
And now my days are full of sorrow,
He went so far away,
Oh how I hope I’ll see my love tomorrow,
He left me yesterday.
First, let me say that my handwriting is readable but never was very neat or even. I don’t feel so bad that it is terrible these days due to lack of practice. Second, notice that I say here who they are written by as if someone would steal them. That’s a lark! Third, I think we must have been reading poetry along the lines of Barbara Allen leading up to this one. I once knew most of that by heart. Ah yes, the days when we had to memorize poems. My favorite was in French class and I still remember some of it today if I don’t think too hard. Le Corbeau et Le Renard by Jean de La Fontaine. “Maitre Corbeau sur un arbre perché.” Stumbled upon a statue of the author with his crow and fox while in Paris for Christmas 2012.
The one about the Bounty is written as the lyrics for a song. For those of an age, this will take you back folks. The note on the page is to “Sing to the tune of You Can’t Roller Skate in a Buffalo Herd,” by Roger Miller.” And the lady from Peach is a limerick. Are those even a thing still? Oh, yep, there they are right there on the Internet. Check out Limericks of Life: Old Age Limericks on the Suddenly Senior website. My old lady isn’t so bad compared to some!
The Old Lady from Peach by Cathy Champion
There was an old lady from Peach,
Who really did want to teach.
She had a mate,
Who like to debate.
They both lived on the west
side of the Beach.
This old lady from Peach,
Who really did want to teach,
Had a funny kind of gait,
That always made her late,
To wherever she wanted to reach.
This old lady from Peach,
Who was late to where she
wanted to reach,
Tripped on a stud,
And fell in the mud,
And never did get to teach.
My favorites, though, are From Sunset to Night and the hiaku. They put visions in my head and I imagine them in a small book with watercolor illustrations. The haiku seems to be the only one turned in and graded. If I peruse the annuals, I’d find the Miss whomever who said, “Good images portrayed.” Thank you across the years and miles! And that is the end of the mid-60s journey through my poetry.
From Sunset to Night by Cathy Champion
I see a blue hill,
Against a pink sky.
All is quite still,
On that hill up so high.
The sky is a bright, beautiful pink,
Topped with one big, fluffy cloud.
If I were Mother Nature, I think
I would feel extremely proud!
The big cloud is quite dreamy,
All fluffy and white.
It looks almost “Ice-creamy,”
And it’s shaped just right.
Then I see the sun floating away.
The moon wins the fight.
I see the pink sky turning grey.
The day is now night.
Haiku by Cathy Champion from November 2, 1967
The wind blows a leaf,
It sways, clutching the bare tree,
It falls to the ground.
There they are, out there,
Jack O’Lanterns sitting still,
Amidst the white frost.
Time marches onward,
It never stops to look back.
Time is unending.
