The power of poetry

 

One year I came home from college to spend Christmas with my family, and I was flat broke. I had gotten used to being a poor college student, but this year I didn't´t want to be broke for Christmas. I was tired of buying junky gifts for my parents, brothers and sisters. This year I wanted to have enough money to buy nice presents.

I got a job washing dishes at a local seafood restaurant, stacking trays od dirty dishes and hauling away the clean dishes when they emerged from the dish-washing machine. It was hot, sweaty work, but on Christmas Eve the manager handed me five crisp twenty dollar bills. I harried out to do my shopping.

There was a shopping center close to my house. I was walking across the parking lot when I was startled to see my grandfather. He was leaning over a container of trash, picking through it.

„Grandpa?“ I said. When I took a step closer I could see that even though the man was tall, thin, and bald he wasn't´t my grandfather. This ragged man had a ripped coat; he looked cold. All I could imagine was my grandfather pawing through trash, looking for something to eat on Christmas Eve. I walked to him and pressed the five twenty dollars bills into his cold hand.

„Merry Christmas“, I mumbled.

„Th-thank you, son,“ the man stammered, looking at the money.

„Merry Christmas,“ the man yelled.

„Merry Christmas,“ I said waving. When I walked away I felt good. But the god feeling lasted about one minute . My wallet was empty now. I didn't´t have any money to buy present for my family.

It seemed pointless to go shopping after that, so I walked home.On the way I got the seed of an idea. I went straight to my room, took out some paper, and started to write. My brainstorm was to write a poem for each member of my family.

I started with one of my little sisters. She liked horses, so I wrote her poem about a horse galloping on the beach. It took me about a half hour to write the poem, and when I finished I decided It wasn't´t bad at all.

One od my brothers wanted to be an astronaut, so I wrote him a poem about outer space. After a while Mom called me down to join everyone in hanging stockings from the mantel. When we where finished I went back upstairs to work.

By ten o´clock I had done four poems, but I had eight brothers and sisters. My eyes started getting tired. It was hard work- talk about writing under deadline!- but it was fun trying to think of what each person would want his or her poem to be about. I wrote and wrote. By eleven my eyes were blurry but the poems were done.

I went down to the basement. Someone had given Dad a box of old paper, and I knew he wouldn´t mind if I took some sheets. I copied each poem onto a piece of paper, trying to keep the letters neat and not make any spelling mistakes.

When I finished copying a poem, I rolled up the paper and tied the red ribbon around the middle.It was almost 1a.m. when I went downstairs and tucked each scrolled poem in a stocking hanging from the fireplace. Finally I could drag myself upstairs and go to bed.

Early the next morning I felt someone tugging the collar of my pajamas. When I wrenched open my eyes, I saw my three year old sister Carolyn standing by my bed. She was holding her Christmas stocking, all lumpy with presents, and I could see the scrolled poem sticking out the top.

„Listen!“ she said in an excited voice. Gently she scrunched her stocking until I could hear the paper crinkling.

„There is something magic in there,“ she said, nodding her little head and looking strait at me. „There is poetry in there. Poetry!“

Maybe you´ve heard before that poetry is magic, and it made you roll your eyes, but I believe it´s true. At the most important moments, when everyone else is silent, poetry rises to speak.

A beloved teacher retires. Her students write a poem and, later, at the ceremony, read it aloud to honor her.

A big sister gets married. Her little sister writes a poem and reads it at the reception.

At funerals, graduations, fiftieth wedding anniversaries, birthday parties, at the inauguration of a president, people gather to rea- what? Not stories. Not articles or plays. They read poems.

I think the reason is partly because poems are so intimate. Often we write poem for personal reason. A girl likes a boy, writes him a love poem, and slips it into his backpack where she knows he will find it.

It has been said that writing a poem for someone else is like giving blood because it comes from the heart of the writer and goes to the heart of the receiver. Poems are filled with words from the heart.

source:Poetry matters-Writing a Poems from the inside Out- Ralph Fletcher