It started early. On February 28th, 1984, a month shy of three years of age, I first wrote my name. Despite that it was comprised of three (or perhaps two given that the 'N' was redundant) all caps letters - ANN - the work was met with great acclaim within certain circles of family and friends. Not but a few months later, my mother took dictation as I composed the following poem.
The blustery wind and the puddles looked at the splashing waves.
Verse 2:
The sand of beach and the sunshine that was hot and the boat that was clearly red.
In retrospect, I realize that Verse 2 lacked the poetic merit of Verse 1, complete with its anthropomorphism reminiscent of T.S Eliot's poem, "The Winter Evening." In fact, Verse 2 altogether lacked a predicate. Nevertheless, with a slight stretch of the imagination, it hinted of William Carlos Williams' poem "The Red Wheelbarrow," and is still admired today for the fact that it could exist simultaneously as a sentence fragment and a run-on sentence.
...And so destiny begged the question: Were these words prophetic of budding genius? Those close to me were quick to answer a resounding, “Yes”. Thus, I was encouraged to write and I came to believe I would write great things. I wrote Kokopelli in the fourth grade amidst a juvenile fascination with local archeology and lore. This, I believed, would be my first major literary contribution.
Kokopelli on your sandstone panel
Dance and play your music
Until the sun rises
Then leap into your petrified figure
On the ancient sandstone wall.
Claiming to be impressed, my father and my fourth grade teacher helped me submit the poem for publication. Nearly a year later, I received a rejection letter. The Western travel magazine, Arizona Highways, claimed not to be accepting reader submissions. But belief is a stubborn thing and I continued to write with an unswerving faith in my literary destiny. I expressed this conviction in a poem:
If I could be a hawk, I would fly.
If I could be a coyote, I would run.
If I could be a fish, I would swim.
Since I am not, I will write.
And write I did. What follows is a small sample of the many lackluster works I produced between 1991 and 1993.
The earth is a colorful ball. Like a marble.
1) For days and days what is dim as night?, But when rain falls, shines bright? (wobniar)
2) What hides its head when daylight spreads, yet in the night it shines its dim light? (noom)
The chill of winter has come
All the geese flew south but one
His name is Honky, Honky Goose.
He is the last to leave. The caboose.
Honky is waiting for Christmas to come.
Then he plans to fly South like the other ones.
But the ice is freezing rapidly.
And his feather aren't as thickly layered
as his friend the duck. But with a
bit of luck Honky can stay and see
Santa on that very special Day.
Let’s amagin a world of peace.
Where every tree is shaded green.
And the sky above is blue and clean.
Where nothing is gloomy and all is brite..
Here darkness never reaches and all is lite.
In this world of harmony no one is ranked lower and all is free.
I believed I would write great things, each work surpassing its predecessor. I believed myself to be the child prodigy destined to one day write the ever illusive "Great American Novel". My name would grace the cannon of American literature throughout my lustrous lifetime, and when at last I died, I believed I would take my rightful heavenly thrown, seated squarely between Shakespeare and Steinbeck.
And even now, looking back over this sample, a trend of literary quality is clear. But its direction defies my prediction. There is no escaping the obvious. "Verse 1" is superior to "Verse 2". "Verse 2" surpases "Kokopelli". "Kokopelli" dwarfs "If I Could Be". Alas.
To plagiarize a lyricist with real merit - "I was so much older then. I'm younger than that now."
