A lost art

As I sit here now, at 8:12 a.m. on a Wednesday morning, there are probably thousands of babies being born around the world. Hundreds of thousands of people are getting ready for work, or stuck in traffic as they anxiously anticipate the thrilling workday that lies before them. Just as many are probably crunching down on a spoonful of Cheerios, watching last night's hockey highlights on TSN, or listening to the newest Nicki Minaj album. Far, far less are reading poetry. I would venture a guess at maybe 4. And I'm being generous because I know my sister is probably on the subway on her way to work, and my Dad is likely walking in the woods somewhere having already been awake for 3 hours. 

What I'm trying to say is there are VERY FEW people these days that enjoy a good bit of poetry. Growing up, I didn't know us poetry-lovers were so few and far between. My dad used to gather us together to listen to him read some of his favourites - which quickly became our favourites. I still remember his voice as he rifled through books in his library in the basement. "KATE!" he'd yell. "Come down here! I want to show you something!" Which usually meant he wanted to read me one of his favourite passages from The Lark in the Clear Air or read me a poem. That, or he'd just let a really majestic fart and couldn't stand the thought of being the only one to experience it. He got me every time. 

As I got older, I remember complaining about a boyfriend who wouldn't listen to me read poetry. I would get to the second stanza, and he would cut me off, claiming he didn't "understand it." That's when my dad broke the news. 

"Hon, not everyone is into poetry. In fact, very few people are. You guys are because I am, and I've been reading you poetry since you were little. But it's really not an easy thing to like." 

I thought about the last Thanksgiving dinner we had as a family. As we sat around the table afterward unbuckling our belts, we played a little game called "let's recite our favourite poems and the first one who can't think of one LOSES." NERDY MUSICAL CHAIRS, ya'll! Does this explain a little about why I am the way I am today? I blame my family completely. 

Of course, my Dad started first:

Those last two lines get me EVERY TIME. Magical, right? 

Then it was my sister's turn. She pulled out a little Shel Silverstein.

One of my uncles got cute and went for some classic Joplin, proving that although unconventional, anything can be poetry.

"Oh lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz. 
My friends all drive Porsches, I must make amends;
Worked hard all my lifetime, no help from my friends,
Oh lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz."

My Uncle John (UJ) has always been known to be a little longwinded. After my mom died, he would drive 14 hours on a Friday night to "help us with our homework" (read: make sure my Dad was ok). We'd sit at the kitchen table with our books open while he talked for hours about politics, geography, and what trees do to the environment. When it was his turn to recite, we all took a deep breath. And he didn't disappoint. He BROUGHT IT. 

Of course this isn't the entire poem. The entire poem is about 15 stanzas, and he knew the whole thing by heart. When he finished, there was about 10 seconds of silence, followed by a resounding cheer. We dumped a cooler full of  Gatorade on his head and declared him the winner. 

I don't remember which poem I shared that night. But I know which one I'd share now. My favourite poem - one that will always remind me of my sister.

For the rest of the week, I will share my own poetry. Not because I want to show off, but because I want you all to appreciate the beauty of it.

Spreading the love, ya'll. I do what I can.