Poetry

Oy. Just the thought of the word "poetry" has always sent chills up my spine. Well, as a requirement for my major, I have to take a poetry workshop class; meaning that not only will I be studying poetry, I will be writing and critiquing my own. So, let's recap:
I've always hated poetry. I've always been terrified of poetry. So, of course, now I have to study it and write my own.
Oh yeah...and my first poem can't rhyme. hmm..

Anywho, so the topic of said first poem for the class was to be written about a childhood memory. What usually comes to mind when people think of their childhood? Family vacations, brothers and sisters, and sports? I dont know. What I do know is what came to my mind...one word that predestined a whole decade of my existence...The Bowl Cut.
Ahh, the bowl cut. So just to catch you up with the story:
When I was growing up, I looked like a boy. Wanna know why? Well, for one, it was my inability to lose any babyfat until I was about the age of 16, how I was taller than any girl (or boy) in my grade for about 7 years, how my cheeks seemed to stay rosy red at all seasons of the year, and lastly, it was the thick-framed harry potter glasses that I sported from 3rd grade on throughout middle school. And on top of all of THAT...we add a bowl cut.
Mom, in an effort to provide herself with ease in getting me ready in the morning, decided one day that cutting my hair off would be a great idea. (Not exactly sure if that was her exact thinking process...I'm sure there was a positive motive in there somewhere) Well, in 5th grade Emma the boy went to sing in New York City. Story time number two:
Boy Emma gets on the tour bus, greeted by a sweet tour guide; a little old lady merely trying to deal with the fact that she had about 40 middle schoolers on a tour bus. So, this lady is introducing herself to each of us, and when she gets to me, out comes one of the most difficult sentences I've ever had to hear..."My, you're a handsome young man. What's your name?" You would have thought that she had just hit me over the head with a club. I cried the rest of the trip, and from that day forward, mom promised to never make decisions regarding anything about my appearance (which, when I became a teenager, she probably should have).

Now that you've heard the story, I'll let you stick to the mental image of all of that as I present to you, my first poem:

"The Bowl Cut"

Fifth grade, mom said it was time

for a hair cut.

A snip here, a snip there

In the kitchen, a top a stool.

Mom, with scissors in hand,

wacking away at the locks

once belonging to her little princess,

now belonging to her prince.

Uneven bangs

accenting the round crooked glasses

and rosey red cheeks of my awkward stage.

Choppy all around, a straight edge

ceasing to exist.

Oh, the bowl cut.

How I loathe you

for turning my awkward stage

into an awkward decade.

Don't be too critical...like I said; I've always hated poetry and have never understood it.

Although I wish I had a picture to put up with this blog, I think the mental image serves its purpose. Hope you enjoyed my little ode to my awkward stage. I'm sure you've had one too.

Much Love,
Emma