It wasn’t until years later that i found a book in my parents’ house full of poetry. Once i recovered from that slight strike to my ego, i went back to my room and wrote another sonnet about a frog that was glued to a ladder. defeated, i begrudgingly shoved the paper his story was written on in a desk drawer, not to be discovered again until much, much later in my life. the man from nantucket was apparently old hat. they’d already heard *my* poem? at 11, you tend to believe your parents are magical, omniscient beings. how about you try doing some prose instead?” My dad stammered a bit and said, “We’ve already heard this one….we’re getting kind of tired of funny poetry. My mom sat there, seemingly trying to hold back a smile, with her head in her hands. we hadn’t even gotten into the meat and potatoes of the blessed thing. “what? what’s wrong?” i was greatly offended to be cut off so abruptly. “Hey!” my dad cut in before i could even get to the second line. My parents looked up from the tv, likely hoping that this one would be shorter than my sonnet from the previous week.Īnd so i started, “There once was a man from Nantucket /// who-” *ahem* “I have this hilarious poem, and I want you guys to hear it!” i was so full of pride i practically floated to the family room, where, oddly enough, my family was sitting. So with pen and paper, i sat down to write the best darned limerick anyone had ever heard.Īfter about twenty minutes, i had come up with something fantastic. it was only natural that i’d want to be the cause of my family’s uproarious laughter by way of my own little limerickal gem. i was raised in a rather open household, and as a result was exposed to many a comical limerick at an early age. simple AABBA pattern, and a nice little rhythm. Limericks, for the most part, are an easy thing to write. Until, at least, i began to delve into the almighty limerick.ĭid i mention this story takes place when i was 11 years old? In truth, i don’t know that anyone really understood my poems, or found them quite as fantastic as i did. this was in my blood, for shit’s sake! i was born to do this. This was only exacerbated upon discovering my great grandfather was a notable poet at hamline university. i felt so strongly about my ability to spin a dope rhyme that i envisioned myself as some awesome child prodigy of poetry. i wrote hysterical poem after hysterical poem, with such wit and imagination one may have believed i was actually *channeling* shel himself. we were both born in chicago–it was fate! so i tried to emulate him. When i was younger, i was really into shel silverstein.
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