Way back in 8th grade, my teacher had assigned the class to write a poem to be considered for selection for a contest. The contest was for a book that was going to be published like they do every year, a Teacher's Selection Anthology of Poetry. Every school across the country that fits the certain criteria, that I don't recall, has their class of students write a poem based on whatever they suggested at the time.
In those days, I was an aspiring novelist. I wasn't that bad considering my age group. My teacher was rather pressing on me, more than most other students in her class, to really focus and write a good poem for submission. Initially, I had thought of doing some big, long poem that dug deep into the heart of troubling issues that had meaning and impact. Thankfully, my teacher guided and encouraged me to try another approach. Unfortunately, being the teenager I was, my reaction was pouty and dismissive. So, I threw a slight fit, remarked about how I could give them what they wanted quite simply and referenced my sphincter Ani Externus would be the source of such grandiose material - just in more of a common and vulgar way.
My teacher, who's name shall remain kept in my memory, tolerated and brushed off my behavior and off I went. About five minutes later I returned with my submission. I made sure to brag about how much time and effort I put into it.
I don't miss my younger years.
She was right. I shouldn't have been so single-focused and moody. I had something there and she knew it.
Good teachers are hard to find sometimes.
Anyway, after some slight revising and then submitting - and some weeks later - we had been informed that I had been selected to be part of the publishing. My poem was going to be printed along with numerous other poems from 8th grade students from across the nation. As memory travels through so many filters before access, I do not remember how much motor function had ceased upon hearing the news. I would like to think that there were a few solid seconds of me frozen in time and shock.
Sometime later they sent me a copy of the book. I pined through it finding that I was only one of three students from my state selected and the only one from my school.
I hadn't originally planned to come on here and tell a personal story about this poem I wrote.
I was just going to post it as it seems simple and fitting enough for people to enjoy and, perhaps, get a little emotional hug to keep warm. Then I thought the story might be nice, as well.
The poem reads as follows:
THE WINTER GLADE
Much as life,
Much as me,
Such strife,
Sets me free,
In my life,
As my goal,
The winter glade,
Release my soul.