The Sunday Poem: Moldering
This is likely to be the oldest poem I ever post on this site — it dates back to March of 1989. Yes, it’s that most horrific of artifacts, a poem from high school. At least one person who reads the blog has commented that he of course “skips over the bad poems from high school” — perhaps there is some meager consolation in the fact that this particular high school poem in fact won an award — I think it was at the district level or something.
Anyway, I’m not so foolish as to present the original version; this is actually the slightly revised version, cleaned up a little bit the subsequent year, after winning. 🙂
Moldering
In webs of sound, in webs of sense,
in faded yellow ribbons,
wrapped and attic-bound,
lonely, message-less,
mortified and mortal,
we found them:
when both people named are dead,
from Darling to Dearest
to Dearly Beloved we are gathered here today
to witness Dearly Departed.
And we had done without those letters for so long,
ignoring the rich faces of those
headstones in the valley
hiding under the house.
If we are our ancestors
then these letters are our life,
just as they used to be;
not as now, calligraphic spiders cold,
fading ink and crumbly,
dearly cared for in
our musty library, dusted
occasionally, or
reprimanded for
making love on the shelves.
3 Responses to “The Sunday Poem: Moldering”
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Once again, I don’t see where the poetic verse is. But still, I can see why you won the award for it. It’s an interesting piece that stirs memories and thoughts. Nicely done, it piques ideas enough to cause one to read it through again.
Personally, I find high school poems quite intersting, as it’s the time in people’s lives where shaping is being molded and refined. High school poetry is like the history of a fine wine.
“this is actually the slightly revised version, cleaned up a little bit the subsequent year, after winning”
So um hows it feel to be 19 again? :)~~~
Pretty good stuff, once in awhile I find some old writing, get appropriately horrified put it away back in whatever box it came from, and
thank my well regarded college english professor for telling me I should “consider another major” because your “no Pynchon kid”.
Although I’ve considered organizing these show boxes and cleaning up this bad writing, it almost seems like some kind of historical revisionisim.
Maybe # of shoe boxes of bad HS verse is a measure of something?
Im not sure….
I wrote an essay in sixth grade that described how to create your first software application in Microsoft QBasic. The essay received the highest rubric grade from four educators. I had no idea what a "rubric grade" was and I still don’t know! But I remember the scores were “6”, “6”, and “6” with an additional “6” as confirmation. My teacher was really excited when she handed the paper back to me, probably because the quality of her students’ education reflects on her as an educator. Anyway, the poem reminded me of my old must library of past works.