I Once Wrote Some Poems part 2

I handed my poetry to my English teacher… It was two weeks before I got it back. 

I had expected red marks and comments on each poem, I had expected some grade, some pointers, some advice. Instead, all I got was;

“Thank you for letting me read your work.”

I’m not sure if that was a positive remark or not; I was not sure if he had actually read my poems or not.

In our next English lesson, we were given the homework task of writing a poem. We could pick any style, any type of poem, so long as it was our own original work. I chose, then heaven knows why, to write an epic poem. Not quite a saga, well not quite an epic poem, but a long poem. A long poem about ‘Exile’, as I thought that would be a suitable title and subject matter for an epic poem. In fact, I recall writing two versions; a long one of about 8 verses and a short one of just three. I my young, schoolboy way, I was proud of my poem.

When my poem was returned to me by the teacher, I received no red marks, no grade, no written comment. The only response was the question, “why did you choose the title ‘Exile’?”

That was all. 

I am not sure if I had expected more but, somehow, my drive had been squashed.

Nevertheless, I had a wodge of poetry by now and the next step, I thought, was to get it published. So that is what I did. I found a publisher who would publish your poems for a small fee …. ‘Vanity publishing’ they called it in those days but little did I know. 

I sent in my poems and they wanted to publish six of them but at a price. I cut it down to just three because that was all I could afford. 

So it was that I became a published poet albeit in an anthology alongside a myriad of other gullible poets and somewhat disappointingly printed near the back, on account of the works being printed by alphabetical order of surname.  I had achieved published obscurity.

One afternoon, my father and I went to visit my grandmother, my granny, his mother. There I read my poems to her. My father and a few of his brothers were also there listening and I could sense their scoffing. My granny made no comment, no response, while I read my work but when all three poems had been read aloud, she said after some thought …

“Well, at least, one of us has enough sense to do something with their life.”

This was a strange remark and not one that could have been expected. My father and his siblings were taken aback by this; clearly it was a barb aimed in their direction.

Myself? Well I felt proud at first but then I realised that my own father had been ‘put down’ by his own mother and I felt that was my fault.

I cannot say I seriously read my poems again.