young love
How I Fell in Love with Words
Through my youthful correspondence with a boy, I fell in love. With words. In person, I am often left feeling like I did not say the right thing. But when writing, I have time to be careful, to ponder, to find a new way to say something old. I learned how, in English, multi-syllabic words have a way of softening the impact of language, how they can show compassion, tenderness and tranquility. Conversely, I learned that single-syllable words could show rigidity, honesty, toughness, relentlessness. I saw how words could invoke anger, sadness, lust, and joy….
In honor of National Poetry Month, I’m committing poetry.
While other girls, afraid
of their own soft hands hid
behind masks, under rocks, dreamed
of boys in tight Levi’s
we met under a rotting pavilion
after roller-skating: Neither of us knew how
to start so he stretched out, nervously
into my lap, settled
into thighs, exposed earlier
only to the hands of the sun.
His chest was jasmine
and we pressed together
silent, holding
our breath, in my hands
a slender purple flower.
Later, the girls squealed, begged
to hear about a single snake
pressing against the temple door
but I had learned to hold hands
with the night, listen
to the lunatic song of crossing winds,
to admire purple flowers
without words.
What do you remember about your first time? Or how do you wish it went?
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Sitting circle,
waiting for his hand
to duck-duck-goose-me
knowing that he might
but there are
soooo many heads between us
soooo many heads to tap
soooo many heads to
tap lightly with fingertips
and he rounds the circle
DUCK DUCK
and he rounds the circle
DUCK DUCK
and I see rainbows in his hair
and water in his eyes
flexing my calves
with anticipation
DUCK
ready to jump
DUCK
ready to jump
DUCK
read to jump
because his palm is on my hair
warm and lingering
l i n g e r i n g
and it is almost off
and I am almost disappointed
gOoSe!
all elbows and knees, i stumble to start
but he is sure-footed and fast
our friends are a noisy blur, shouting
RUN RUN
and I want to run
my arms are open
like my smile
like my eyes are open
so I see when he looks back
slightly slowing, waiting
wanting me to catch him
wanting me
to catch him
and i want to keep panting
want to keep panting
want to
ruffle his sweet soft feathers.
What are your earliest memories of young love?
For a period of years, I exchanged letters with a boy. He was smart, and I felt flattered by his long-distance attention. I loved the way his words looked on the page, and after devouring the content of his letters, I would stare at his penmanship. His handwriting was distinctive; long, thin strokes in the “T’s” and “L’s”; his vowels undersized, tiny and tight. Very controlled. My “P’s” and “L’s” wanted to loop. My vowels were large and open, like my heart.
During this period, I focused on composing the best letters I could. I explained – dissected – deconstructed and reconstructed the world for him in an attempt to get him to see things through my eyes. I showed him the beauty of the cigarette butt left on the filthy street corner, and wondered about the woman with the orange-red lipstick who had held it in her mouth. I addressed my envelopes, licked my stamps, sent my poetry and prose. And since there was neither instant messaging nor Skype nor Facebook nor email in the 1980s, I had to wait . . . and wait. . . and wait for the postal carrier to (finally) bring me a long anticipated envelope. And always his responses were wonderful: filled with answers and more questions, more observations which led to more thinking, reflecting, writing.
Through our correspondence, I fell in love. With words. I learned how, in English, multi-syllabic words have a way of softening the impact of language, how they can show compassion, tenderness and tranquility. Conversely, I learned that single-syllable words could show rigidity, honesty, toughness, relentlessness. I saw how words could invoke anger, sadness, lust, and joy. As an adult, when speaking, I sometimes feel like I did not say quite the right thing. But when writing, I have time to be careful, to ponder, to find a new way to say something old. I can craft something magical.
I have always said that the best writing is born in obsession, rooted in a specific place.
My favorite word is “apricot” because it invokes a specific sense of smell, of taste and touch – but for me, it also reminds me of a particular morning in a particular place when the sun rose and made the world glow. It is a juicy word. A sweet word. A golden word scented with summer. I use the word “apricot” to show my students how one image can hold a lot of weight.
Some day I will thank that boy who made me want to revise, who made me want to give him only my best, most delicious words, my most ferocious images. Wherever he is, I hope he is still writing, too.
If you are so inclined, I would love to know if you have a favorite/least favorite word, what it is, and what it evokes for you.