Don was first with the name calling. “Emily is a poet,” he said, all smiley. Then Larry joined in, “Emily’s poetic writing.”

Backed in a corner, I tried to stay light and loose, but I felt defensive. Wait, I had a clever retort.

“Am not.”

Then I dispensed evidence:

  1. I own nary a beret, ruffle shirt, or quill pen set.
  2. I don’t flounce about or throw myself into fits of despair.
  3. My hair it too short to toss longingly in ambient light.
  4. I’m not angsty. If I were a weather pattern, I’d be mostly sunny.

So, the accusation that Don and Larry cast toward me stung a bit. I didn’t consider myself a poet and didn’t like being called one straight up to my face. Denial, such is the way with writers.

I admire poetry, especially if it’s compact in structure, brief in length, and contains double-edged meanings. I want words that linger, that make me feel and smile. Sitting still with beautiful descriptive language that paints the page warms my soul.

I grew up on Rural Route Two of the North Carolina Sandhills. People have names for where I’m from: the country, the sticks, the boondocks, and more recently, since tobacco farms have been replaced by split rail fencing and high dollar equestrian villas, the fringe.

Back in the day, there were limited modern recreational resources, but what was lacking in one form overflowed in others. My people were storytellers. A good tale and the ability to deliver it was a respected and valued skill. Kinfolk might ask you to share a previously told story at gatherings. You might be called over to impersonate a teacher or family member. Stories were how we transferred the events in our lives, how we kept record, how we related.

There was also something grounding about capturing our rich history and transferring it to those around us. “Daddy,” we kids begged, “Tell us about when you were in trouble at school and had to plant those trees for punishment.” The trees in front of Westmoore School were now tall and strong. Trees our daddy planted as a boy.

Daddy obliged with the story as Mama rolled her eyes, tired of the rerun. I noticed over the years, that the story, like the trees, changed and grew. Parts were edited in and out. Both Daddy and the tale matured and aged.

My father was self-educated. He was well read, quick with numbers, and good with words. He had a demonstrative, compelling way of reporting an occurrence, and depending on the length and details, I’ve come to realize that some of what he relayed was prose poetry, some was poetic prose. Most of it was non-fiction.

I aspire to that kind of storytelling, etched into my being through DNA and all that I witnessed.

In his later years, Daddy penned poems to his favorite people, commemorating birthdays, and anniversaries. The work followed a prescriptive pattern, yet they were individualized, highlighting the qualities and merit of the recipients – a one-page, micro-novella. The prized possessions landed in scrapbooks and frames. Each of Daddy’s poems ended with the same last two lines. Maybe it works for this blog.

When all is said and done
I’ll rank prose poetry (and Carteret Writers) a big #1