Thinking in Ink (for Derrick Shirley)
The good, the bad and ugly
in self I must embrace -
the extra pounds on body
and scars upon my face.
The darkest depths of my soul
I try to hide from sight -
the very things my writing
has often brought to light.
My bleakest and most hopeless
were days to coincide
with those times my pen stayed capped -
words bottled up inside.
You see, I know when ink flows,
with every written line -
my past life is deciphered;
my future is designed.
Conversations with myself
emerge upon the page.
Thoughts I didn't want to think
must now my brain engage.
Through scratched out words and scribbles
I have found eloquence
when the needed words appeared
to make my world make sense.
My flaws seem less important
when thoughts translate to ink.
As pen glides over paper
more lofty thoughts I think.
And as pen gains momentum
I see myself anew -
embracing imperfections
and moving forward too.
(By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November 25, 2013)
On the very first pages his book, "The 400 Pound Male Stripper", Derrick Shirley talks about the scripts we each live and how we can each reshape our own story by putting pen to paper and "thinking in ink". This was a central theme to the book, and it resonated with me because in one way or another, ink has played a big part in life. I've been keeping journals (or "diaries" as I referred to them in youth) since the age of eleven. Those first attempts to "write my life" were scribbled in the unused portions of old school notebooks, and filled with pages describing grade school crushes and hanging out with friends. At times I vented in them, complaining bitterly about some perceived injustice I'd experienced. The eighteen volumes on my shelf provide a running commentary on what my life was through all of its stages, but they don't tell the whole story very well.
I have always battled self-esteem issues. I grew up feeling that I was constantly falling short - I wasn't pretty enough or smart enough or good enough. I was the wallflower sitting on the bench, hoping someone would save me from the pack of desperate girls who went unasked. Derrick's book brought back a lot of those feelings. I have never felt any conflict about my race or heritage, but nevertheless I know what it feels like to look in the mirror and feel anger and distaste - to want to be someone other than who you are.
My "aha moment" as far using my pen to change the script my life had always followed came a few years ago when I decided to begin this poetry blog. Finding out that I was brave enough to "put myself out there" spurred me on to greater literary efforts. I put pen to paper and wrote the book I'd always threatened to write. (It has never been published, so don't go looking for it! I don't know if it ever will be.) The act of completing it was enough to begin to change the way I felt about myself. I could find the discipline to write for blocks of several hours four or five times a week. I could make sense out of the chaos in my brain to put a whole story down on paper. My "not good enough" mentality took a turn in the right direction, becoming first a hesitant "maybe?" and then an almost full-on "I can!".
So I understand the message that we can reshape our lives with pens and paper. Derrick's story proves that. Once he found an outlet for his thoughts and frustrations through writing he physically reshaped himself by "stripping off" almost half his body weight. He found peace with himself, got his degree, found love. He re-wrote his script and now plays a role that he loves. He loves the person he's become and the life he lives.
One story that he told in the book struck me particularly because of its profound circularity - he was hurt by someone and then years later turned around and hurt someone else exactly the same way. I could relate to that part too.
All of us, at times, find ourselves looking at life from varying perspectives. It's similar to the difference between standing outside peeking into windows, or being inside looking out. The landscape of life changes, depending on what side of the glass it's seen from. I was uncoordinated as child, and I had a dead zone in my brain when it came to understanding sports. I was the last kid picked for any team. You'd think that the ego crushing resulting from those experiences would have made me empathetic enough to not hurt others in a similar fashion. But I have mocked those who are not good at doing the things that come easily to me. I am capable of cruelty. We all are.
Sometimes we think that the perspective we're seeing is the right one. We believe that we have found the optimal spot from which to observe the world - we alone view it to its best advantage. We ardently believe that the particular window we're looking out of makes us impervious to the criticisms of others - like a bigot who thinks he can scream racial slurs at an innocent bystander through the safety of his car window...
Both Sides of the Window (For Derrick Shirley)
On one side of a pane of glass
a nasty, racist guy
observes a boy he cruises past
with hatred in his eye.
Through a swiftly unrolled window
words shoot out as though from gun -
astonished by the names he's called,
the youth stands silent - stunned.
This prejudice is crystal clear -
like glass in window panes;
the boy would like to hurl retort
but prudently refrains.
On both sides of my window pane
such scenes I've acted out.
I've been both insulted party
and the one to rudely shout.
I have been a perpetrator
without an alibi
and I've led interrogations
wanting only to know why.
I've stood behind a mirrored wall -
an unrepentant punk,
and been arresting officer -
a little power drunk.
In every role I'm visible
whether I'm wrong or right.
I hide behind transparent wall
where I am in plain sight.
(By Sharon Flood Keasenberg, November 26, 2013)
I never thought I would see myself in a book called "The 400 Pound Stripper", but I did. I loved Derrick's story because I could relate to it - I saw flashes of me while I read. When the book first arrived in my mailbox, I sat and read it straight through. Then I got up off my nice comfy couch and walked around for three days thinking lots of not-so-comfortable thoughts. He made me analyze, and stew and ruminate on my own life and how to continue that transformation - the one that ink (and computer keyboard) started. Finally I sat down and re-read it, pen in hand, making notes and underlining. (My volume is now filled with both "think" and "ink".)
So thank you, Derrick, for making me think. Thanks to your story I dreamed a few nights back about reams of paper and boxes of pens, and then got up and wrote. Thank you for reminding me that we all progress at our own pace, navigating according to the terrain we see on our current side of the glass. And thank you for reminding me that I can re-write, change, "strip" off the old tired scripts that weigh me down and emerge transformed - worthy of love. When I see that message in my own print I am empowered by an increased ability to love myself.
What greater message could there be in any book?
Friday 29 November 2013
Thursday 14 November 2013
The Ballad of Horace - (Or How Truth that's Stranger than Fiction Deserves to be Immortalized!) By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Today I'm going to share the poem that I had the most fun writing! I hope it at least brings a smile to my readers, because immodest as it may sound this is one I laughed out loud while writing. (Luckily the store was quiet that day - and yes - for those of you about to criticize me for slacking at work, the store was spotless, the shelves faced up and inventory had been taken and called in before I took pen in hand.)
Inspiration for this ode came to me thus. About six years ago my sibs and I were gathered at my sister's house for a family get-together. (I'm guessing a visit from my Mother, who was still living in Sault Ste. Marie at the time prompted my sister to invite us all over.) Anyhow, there we were after supper hanging around the living room visiting when my mother asked me to share a poem or two. (Like most moms, mine is the biggest fan of my literary endeavors.) So I read and my siblings politely heard me out. After my reading my mother suddenly said:
"You girls get your poetic leanings from my side of the family, you know!"
She was referring to myself and my oldest sister, who is a poet of the non-rhyming variety. We must've both looked a bit surprised by this statement, because - well, my mothers siblings are nice people, but while several of them are musical, nary a soul in that connection could be suspected of being poetically inclined.
My mother went on to tell us the story of her cousin, a poet who established quite a reputation among his kin in the rural area of Dayton Ontario. As it turns out, he made a name for himself because he was known to rather unceremoniously arrive on his relatives' door steps expecting to stay for a few days to regale them with his rather horrific poetry!
She told us he hailed from some spot nearby known as Hungry Hollow, whose residents were notoriously inbred, and went on to say that when she was young a visit from this cousin was an event to be dreaded. However, none of his kin dared risk the social stigma that would accompany showing any lack of hospitality toward a visitor.
Now a poet with less faith in a mother's sincere admiration might have taken umbrage from the telling of this tale, but as it was I wasn't piqued in the slightest - nor was my sister. Instead we were intrigued by the tale of the roaming poet of the North Shore (that's the north shore of Lake Huron, by the way) who came from a place so small that even we, (with our mother who hailed from Dayton and Silverburg and our father who hailed from Cockburn Island), had never heard of it!
Yes, my mother laid down fertile soil for my poetic mind that day. I would write a poem to commemorate this purveyor of bad verse!! I could just see my grandparents trying to issue a hearty welcome to the troubadour, while inwardly praying that he'd go off and pester someone else! (Obviously I tweaked names and fictionalized this visit, so as to spare my relatives any pain when the tale becomes famous!) The lines began to percolate as I sat there, and within 48 hours I had penned an epic!
So without further ado, here it is...
The Ballad of Horace (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November 2007)
Horace hailed from Hungry Hollow -
barely tall as he was wide;
a meandering route he'd follow
roaming o'er the countryside.
He believed he was poetic
(though of talent, he had none),
all his efforts were pathetic -
kin, on seeing him, would run.
Cousins would shout with insistence,
"To the barn we all must flee!",
as his girth, seen in the distance
bobbed along quite merrily.
"Oh my goodness, here comes Horace!",
moaned their frazzled mom inside,
"How I hoped he would ignore us,
but there's nowhere I can hide."
(This she said with resignation
as she braced to open door - )
"He reeks so of desperation
and his verse is such a bore!
It's a shame that he's related -
such a nephew must I own?"
At this thought she hesitated,
then repented with a groan.
"Hungry Hollow folk are inbred,
but to shun would be a sin,
so he must be welcomed and fed -
we can choose friends, but not kin.
I will smile while verse he's sharing
and try to attentive be -
I'll be blessed if I'm forbearing,
he is family to me."
Thus the door was quickly flung wide,
Horace beamed upon the stair
and he was invited inside
for she couldn't leave him there.
Soon her dear spouse from the fields came
hoping for five minutes rest
and espying Horace felt shame
at how much the sight distressed.
Horace sighed with great contentment
as he warmed before the fire,
quite immune to their resentment
and oblivious to ire.
"With which verse shall I reward them
for such hospitality?
They're deserving of my best gem - "
Ran his thoughts, jovially.
Aunt and uncle sat there waiting,
dreading their impending doom
'til his ode exasperating
filled the confines of the room.
He recited with expression -
spewed the passion of his soul...
while they held in check agression
and maintained shaky control.
Oh - it seemed he droned forever!
Minutes felt to them like years!
But to yawn - no no - not ever!
(Though they both were bored to tears.)
Horace saw their eyes a-glisten -
thrilled to note how each was moved.
With such rapture they did listen!
Surely this his talent proved!
After poem reached cresendo
he refused offer of meal
and insisted that he must go
with almost religious zeal.
His refusal was quite stunning -
they'd been granted a reprieve!
As he hastened away running,
gratefully they watched him leave.
"I don't suppose it's his fault
he's not quite right in the head,
I've heard this can be the result
when close relatives are wed.
His IQ probably should rise -
perhaps by more than dozens -
a crazy kid is no surprise
when parents are first cousins!"
'Twas this his aunt and uncle mused
as they watched the boy depart.
His inbred heritage excused
complete ignorance of art.
But Horace, joyful, walked on air.
He'd achieved his heart's desire!
He sped to others where he'd share
poetry to souls inspire!
He bounced along in portly glee
with his spectacles askew -
another mile, or two or three...
and he'd induce tears anew!
Inspiration for this ode came to me thus. About six years ago my sibs and I were gathered at my sister's house for a family get-together. (I'm guessing a visit from my Mother, who was still living in Sault Ste. Marie at the time prompted my sister to invite us all over.) Anyhow, there we were after supper hanging around the living room visiting when my mother asked me to share a poem or two. (Like most moms, mine is the biggest fan of my literary endeavors.) So I read and my siblings politely heard me out. After my reading my mother suddenly said:
"You girls get your poetic leanings from my side of the family, you know!"
She was referring to myself and my oldest sister, who is a poet of the non-rhyming variety. We must've both looked a bit surprised by this statement, because - well, my mothers siblings are nice people, but while several of them are musical, nary a soul in that connection could be suspected of being poetically inclined.
My mother went on to tell us the story of her cousin, a poet who established quite a reputation among his kin in the rural area of Dayton Ontario. As it turns out, he made a name for himself because he was known to rather unceremoniously arrive on his relatives' door steps expecting to stay for a few days to regale them with his rather horrific poetry!
She told us he hailed from some spot nearby known as Hungry Hollow, whose residents were notoriously inbred, and went on to say that when she was young a visit from this cousin was an event to be dreaded. However, none of his kin dared risk the social stigma that would accompany showing any lack of hospitality toward a visitor.
Now a poet with less faith in a mother's sincere admiration might have taken umbrage from the telling of this tale, but as it was I wasn't piqued in the slightest - nor was my sister. Instead we were intrigued by the tale of the roaming poet of the North Shore (that's the north shore of Lake Huron, by the way) who came from a place so small that even we, (with our mother who hailed from Dayton and Silverburg and our father who hailed from Cockburn Island), had never heard of it!
Yes, my mother laid down fertile soil for my poetic mind that day. I would write a poem to commemorate this purveyor of bad verse!! I could just see my grandparents trying to issue a hearty welcome to the troubadour, while inwardly praying that he'd go off and pester someone else! (Obviously I tweaked names and fictionalized this visit, so as to spare my relatives any pain when the tale becomes famous!) The lines began to percolate as I sat there, and within 48 hours I had penned an epic!
So without further ado, here it is...
The Ballad of Horace (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November 2007)
Horace hailed from Hungry Hollow -
barely tall as he was wide;
a meandering route he'd follow
roaming o'er the countryside.
He believed he was poetic
(though of talent, he had none),
all his efforts were pathetic -
kin, on seeing him, would run.
Cousins would shout with insistence,
"To the barn we all must flee!",
as his girth, seen in the distance
bobbed along quite merrily.
"Oh my goodness, here comes Horace!",
moaned their frazzled mom inside,
"How I hoped he would ignore us,
but there's nowhere I can hide."
(This she said with resignation
as she braced to open door - )
"He reeks so of desperation
and his verse is such a bore!
It's a shame that he's related -
such a nephew must I own?"
At this thought she hesitated,
then repented with a groan.
"Hungry Hollow folk are inbred,
but to shun would be a sin,
so he must be welcomed and fed -
we can choose friends, but not kin.
I will smile while verse he's sharing
and try to attentive be -
I'll be blessed if I'm forbearing,
he is family to me."
Thus the door was quickly flung wide,
Horace beamed upon the stair
and he was invited inside
for she couldn't leave him there.
Soon her dear spouse from the fields came
hoping for five minutes rest
and espying Horace felt shame
at how much the sight distressed.
Horace sighed with great contentment
as he warmed before the fire,
quite immune to their resentment
and oblivious to ire.
"With which verse shall I reward them
for such hospitality?
They're deserving of my best gem - "
Ran his thoughts, jovially.
Aunt and uncle sat there waiting,
dreading their impending doom
'til his ode exasperating
filled the confines of the room.
He recited with expression -
spewed the passion of his soul...
while they held in check agression
and maintained shaky control.
Oh - it seemed he droned forever!
Minutes felt to them like years!
But to yawn - no no - not ever!
(Though they both were bored to tears.)
Horace saw their eyes a-glisten -
thrilled to note how each was moved.
With such rapture they did listen!
Surely this his talent proved!
After poem reached cresendo
he refused offer of meal
and insisted that he must go
with almost religious zeal.
His refusal was quite stunning -
they'd been granted a reprieve!
As he hastened away running,
gratefully they watched him leave.
"I don't suppose it's his fault
he's not quite right in the head,
I've heard this can be the result
when close relatives are wed.
His IQ probably should rise -
perhaps by more than dozens -
a crazy kid is no surprise
when parents are first cousins!"
'Twas this his aunt and uncle mused
as they watched the boy depart.
His inbred heritage excused
complete ignorance of art.
But Horace, joyful, walked on air.
He'd achieved his heart's desire!
He sped to others where he'd share
poetry to souls inspire!
He bounced along in portly glee
with his spectacles askew -
another mile, or two or three...
and he'd induce tears anew!
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