Terry Christmas hates his name;
His folks thought they were clever.
Each year ’round, it is his aim
To do what-must to sever
His hated name from any claim
To corporal form — however,
No one lets him just declaim
His true name to be Trevor.
(...Mary Christmas is his drag name.)
...sometimes, something like that comes out.
As I write more, not just writing more poems but writing more of other forms like stories, I (like other writers) will get used to Writing When I Think The Words Won't Easily Come. I wrote that the day after Christmas, out at my parents' house, wanting to get something down but not sure what I'd come up with, and having trouble getting started. I'd last written in my poetry notebook December 4th; I was missing the act of writing in it; I tried that time to make it easy on myself. And this happened.
Didn't feel very inspired — I knew it shouldn't be too long, anyway — so I wrapped it up quickly. And, I hope, amusingly. It's an odd poem for me, and I debated whether or not I'd share it, but I decided I'd keep myself honest if I did. Plus I like the habit of sharing what I come up with. I don't want to be an overly precious George McFly, not wanting anyone to read my stuff because what if they don't like it?
By the way, by the Rules of Writing, the above is going to be someone's favorite thing I have ever written, and they will think I was nuts to consider not sharing it. More power to you, hypothetical Chris fan. I give an amused and slightly chagrined thumbs-up.
This poem © Christopher Walsh, 2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Christopher Walsh (chris_walsh) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.