poetry club.

a couple of weeks ago, at a post-church outing, it was suggested that we all learn and memorize a poem to recite to one another. i was assigned anne sexton. although i didn't know much about her before, i was kind of disappointed to be assigned a poet who is, in my mind, rather trendy.
but! then i did some research, and asked the poetry experts in my life, and i eventually found a poem i really liked--a few, in fact, but i barely had the time to memorize one (and poorly, at that).
we all reconvened on sunday night to share our poems and it was delightful. i forget how much i like poetry! and i would like to become a poetry advocate, if there is such a thing. because i think it is a rather under-appreciated medium. so maybe i will start sharing poems with you all. one thing i like about poetry is that it usually takes me a couple of readings to totally understand the poem--and each time i read a poem, or hear it, the more i enjoy it.
anyway, here is the poem i shared with my friends:

Courage

It is in the small things we see it.
The child's first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
The first time you rode a bike,
wallowing up the sidewalk.
The first spanking when your heart
went on a journey all alone.
When they called you crybaby
or poor or fatty or crazy
and made you into an alien,
you drank their acid
and concealed it.

Later,
if you faced the death of bombs and bullets
you did not do it with a banner,
you did it with only a hat to
cover your heart.
You did not fondle the weakness inside you
though it was there.
Your courage was a small coal
that you kept swallowing.
If your buddy saved you
and died himself in so doing,
then his courage was not courage,
it was love; love as simple as shaving soap.

Later,
if you have endured a great despair,
then you did it alone,
getting a transfusion from the fire,
picking the scabs off your heart,
then wringing it out like a sock.
Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,
you gave it a back rub
and then you covered it with a blanket
and after it had slept a while
it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.

Later,
when you face old age and its natural conclusion
your courage will still be shown in the little ways,
each spring will be a sword you'll sharpen,
those you love will live in a fever of love,
and you'll bargain with the calendar
and at the last moment
when death opens the back door
you'll put on your carpet slippers
and stride out.

i also found a bunch of other anne sexton poems here.