Not a Priest, a Poet

In which Annie explodes onto the page.

Earlier this fall, Annie brought home a little slip of paper from her library class at school. She had been asked to title a fiction book, and, in her Annie way, she quickly transformed a rote exercise about the Dewey Decimal System into a work of micro-poetry. Her fictional book of fiction was titled, Not a Priest, a Poet.

I am not at all sure what the future holds for Annie, but I can tell you this: at age nine she is already an exquisite poet, and perhaps a bit of a priestess as well. Even though I’m hesitant to admit that my child has surpassed me as a creative writer, I’m also overwhelmingly proud of her, and I absolutely love the way her unique and wild mind can fish an astonishing poem out of thin air. Mental illness is a demon, but one with unexpected graces.

For example, one night at dinner last summer, she looked up from her meal and remarked: “You are spirits, floating around in the uncommon world.” Then she went back to her food, oblivious to the way I was staring at her wide-eyed and dumbfounded. Moments like that are classic Annie.

But that’s enough out of me. I’m going to let Annie take over the page now.

The Cycle

I am a boat leaking with worry water
I am the sea that carries it far beyond the sunset
I am the fish that feasts on the worry water
I am the eagle that feasts on the worry fish
I am the girl who reads this poem
I am her mind that breathes in the worry
I am the body that meditates the worry boat
To worry island.

(This poem was beautifully shared in a blog post by my friend Allan.)

---

This Trip

This trip
is longer than
the Connecticut
Road and
shorter than
the Silk Road
we carried more
supplies than
burdens there
were more clouds
than people
and fewer
mountains than
trees and more
songs than talks

---

I Am But I Am Not

The edge of the world is
all around me but
I am standing in the middle.

I am walking on
torpedoes
yet it is soft as grass.

I am flying in
the air but my feet
are on the ground.

I am sad but
I am jumping for joy.

---

You

You shine the light
on my days you wish
away the cold at night
you grow the gardens
so high you lower
the grass so we can walk by

(Annie wrote this poem about me; it makes me sound far more omnipotent than I am, but I’m not complaining!)

---

Harmony is a song in perfect pitch no mistakes
just like them not like me
to everyone I am a dust bunny who ruins everything
they are the ballet on pointe
I am the storm that blows away the stage
they are the birds who sing babies to dreams
and I am the crow who scares people to nightmares.

---

I 
  walk 
          to 
 	       the
                   park 

not
      cold 
             just
                    longing 
		                 for 
		                      more 
sad
      things 
	         bad 
	                things
		                    all
                                         at
			                      the
                                                    park 
on
     the
           way
	           back
		            I
		               was
			              cold
on
      the
            way
	            back
		             it
		                 was
			                windy
strong
            wind
	             fast
		            wind
		                      on
			                    the
way
        back

---

The Bill of Life

Life is a tomb
one where you fall
into it and break
your ankle it heals
but the bad always
comes back. It heals
and breaks it is a
bill you have to pay
to stay in this life
if you want to survive
pay the bill of life
pay the money which is
food and clothes and
shelter and medicine
the bill of life
the bill of life