Jeremy
8.30.2005
When I was 13, I had the biggest most shameless crush on Jeremy V, the guitar playing cutie who sat beside me in Algebra AND Integrated Science. We had every class together so I could stare at him in Music, Art, English, History and whatever else we may have had then. Eventually I weedled my way in, and we spoke on the phone every night. When I say spoke, I mean, he practiced his guitar and after each song, would pause to ask "How was that?" and I'd say (I'm sure while starry-eyed) "That sounds great, Jeremy". The process would then repeat.
So, when we started the obligatory poetry unit in English, and had to write our own poems, I knew just who my muse would be. I was home sick (step throat-ick!) the day it was assigned, but my mother had stopped off at school on her way home from work and greeted me with a weekend's pile of work upon arriving home. Spotting my english assignment, I tossed all my other work to the side and began working on that poem. I slaved over it all weekend, exhasperating myself to no end because of my lack of poetic knowledge and my inexperience with the world thus far. I worked all weekend on that poem, and when Monday came, I was satisfied. Moreover, I was relieved it would soon be going out of my hands so I would no longer be compelled to useless attempts to improve it. Truth be told, there was no helping it. It sucked. At the time though, I thought it was fabulous.
Yesterday evening, I was rummaging through my storage unit, trying to find some old notes from college for a friend, when I came across my very first book of poetry. I've tried to block out many things that I've written over the years, so it came as no surprise to me that I had no idea what awaited me inside. I opened it just to take a quick peek, and found that very poem staring back at me. I skimmed it, laughing, then took a little more time to read it thoroughly. That made the laughing so much worse. Then, after the comedic tears subsided, I made a copy of the poem, jotted a note, and sent it off to a friend, shares her poems (usually quite good ones) with me.
So, for your entertainment/horror, I give to you on this cold, dreary, wet day, my very first poem:
(Note: The style of this poem is called "When I Watch You". You had to begin each stanza with that phrase as well as keep beat with the original. All the words I've made pink, were mandatory)
So, when we started the obligatory poetry unit in English, and had to write our own poems, I knew just who my muse would be. I was home sick (step throat-ick!) the day it was assigned, but my mother had stopped off at school on her way home from work and greeted me with a weekend's pile of work upon arriving home. Spotting my english assignment, I tossed all my other work to the side and began working on that poem. I slaved over it all weekend, exhasperating myself to no end because of my lack of poetic knowledge and my inexperience with the world thus far. I worked all weekend on that poem, and when Monday came, I was satisfied. Moreover, I was relieved it would soon be going out of my hands so I would no longer be compelled to useless attempts to improve it. Truth be told, there was no helping it. It sucked. At the time though, I thought it was fabulous.
Yesterday evening, I was rummaging through my storage unit, trying to find some old notes from college for a friend, when I came across my very first book of poetry. I've tried to block out many things that I've written over the years, so it came as no surprise to me that I had no idea what awaited me inside. I opened it just to take a quick peek, and found that very poem staring back at me. I skimmed it, laughing, then took a little more time to read it thoroughly. That made the laughing so much worse. Then, after the comedic tears subsided, I made a copy of the poem, jotted a note, and sent it off to a friend, shares her poems (usually quite good ones) with me.
So, for your entertainment/horror, I give to you on this cold, dreary, wet day, my very first poem:
(Note: The style of this poem is called "When I Watch You". You had to begin each stanza with that phrase as well as keep beat with the original. All the words I've made pink, were mandatory)
When I Watch You
2/97
When I watch you,
Playing Your Guitar
Like an aspiring video God
Sitting, surrounded by the music
Made by your band.
Or
When I watch you
In your street clothes
With the arms ripped off by your fans
Sitting, waiting for your album promos
like your next song.
I say
When I watch you
You rock and roll wannabe
Singing you favorite song
As you hear it on the radio
I stand up
Through your destruction
I stand up.
The crush on Jeremy V faded soon after this was written. It was but a distant memory when a year later, my best friend, a newcomer to the area, acquired the same spark in her that I recognized instantly. When she hit me up for his number, I slid it to her, but told her not to bother. He was unattainable. The reality wasn't quite as good as the dream. Maybe my horrible prose had something to do with lifing the spellbinding fog. Maybe it was the discovery that all the times he came to class sniffing, it wasn't because he had a cold. It still, even after all these years, isn't because he's got a cold. Now, he's a little duller around the edges though. He didn't become a rock star, last I heard, he gave up school to work at a music store in my hometown, giving lessons.
Now, I must go theive the rest of the pumpkins out of the candy corn mix that's perched in a dish in my hallway.
Amelia at 1:50 PM
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