The Writer and other Poetry by Faye Constantino
I am a Writer
I've been a writer since I was thirteen. I walked into the classroom of my 10th grade English teacher knowing that I wanted to be a writer. I had met a character in a book over the summer, and I knew. I didn't know yet how to write, but my mother was a writer, so how hard could it be.
This teacher was amazing. While standing in the hall on the first day of school, the door locked, waiting for her to let us in, we could see her room did not look like your normal English class. Instead of books there was art everywhere!
We started out the year with life size artwork depicting Starry Starry Night: it was a standing Van Gogh figure with the painting reproduced on the body, but you could look at it and hear the song in your head. There were artistic representations of poetry and songs in every corner of the room. Over there was Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, and in this corner Bowie's Space Oddity. There were murals, as a border, along the tops of the walls.
Around the room, on counters and window sills, were framed pictures, reproductions of artwork that might be found in a museum as well as pieces produced by art students in our own school. There was no seating chart this time. We were instructed to sit where we would have a good view of a piece of art that caught our eye and moved us. Moving your desk to get a better view of a particular work of art was encouraged.
It's no wonder that she was quickly our favorite teacher. Entering this class made the world go away, almost literally. When we entered her classroom, the rest of the High School life effectively disappeared. The only thing that could not yet be controlled was the bullying and ridicule that goes on in schools around the country to this day.
We had several projects that year. The first was to read our favorite poem or song lyric to the class. It had to be one that we knew by heart, that meant something to us. No one was allowed to choose one that was already chosen, so I turned in one no one would choose. I chose "See This House" by Michael O'Martian.
See This House by Michael O'Martian
See this house I've built.
It stands so strong,
It took so long.
Placed so high on this hill.
No one sees in,
They never will.
Board by board I willed the walls into place,
And the roof went on with my dreams.
As nice as it is on the outside,
You know it's still not all what it seems.
Inside it's all run down.
Lonely and bare,
Confusion all around.
Things to be sold.
Love to be found.
Down the hall, that room's been locked up for years.
And neglect has misplaced the key.
It's full of old memories I bought for a price,
At a time when nothing came free.
Opened the door.
And there was light like there's never been before.
Gave me the key.
And there was love there to set me free
And until you........
I was like sand,
Blown out of hand
See this house I've built.
It stands so strong,
It took so long.
Inside it's been made new.
It's all I have.
It's all for you.
Yeah, I got picked apart for that one. They didn't get it! They thought that I was dedicating myself to them, and that I thought I looked good on the outside.
What teenager really thinks that?
I could feel the stares and hear the murmurs as I made my way back to my seat...
I still have the tears in my eyes and the lump in my throat at the memory...
The one place I could be accepted, the one place where we were all equal, the one time I could trust everyone to actually see me...
And I blew it.
I'm an adult now ( I think) and it has been many years, more than I care to count. I never became a published author because I was afraid of what people would think of me and say about me behind my back, or worse, to my face.
I started about nine years or so ago, writing on Poetry.com. They went under and now all of my poetry is owned by LULU Poetry. I have tried to retrieve it. They still haven't given it back, but at least they have gathered it all in one place, under my real name.
Now, here, among my peers, I have grown to a place where I can show my face, my feelings, my history and my art.
So, see this house? It's all I have, it's all for you... Thank you Hub Pages writers, for being the friends who live inside my computer. Thank you for allowing me to publish my work here. Thank you for supporting me, reading me, sharing me, daring me to do better! Thank you for treating me with respect when I deserve it and kid gloves when I need it, and thank you for the ready supply of shoulders to cry on and crutches to lean on.
If you are new to Hub Pages, just go to the tab marked "Hubbers" at the top of the screen and click on any name, and you will see who I mean. There are thousands of writers here who will love and accept you, nurture you and protect you. Even those who may seem fierce in the forums will become a teddy bear rather than a grizzly if you need help from them.
If you are new here. Welcome to Hub Pages, you'll find a happy home here... If anyone gives you any trouble, just let me know, they probably didn't mean it...
One of my old poems, now on LULU Poetry
Before a blank page I sit, quite daunted.
By scenes of dreamlike specters, I'm haunted.
I try to form the words in my mind,
to instill in the reader the vision in kind.
I want to take you by the hand, and lead you,
To this magical place I've been to...
But I can't seem to find the map or the way,
With hands poised o'er the keyboard I pray.
When my eyes are closed I see their faces,
and when I am not thinking I hear the traces,
of phrases spoken between lovers entwined.
But I ask, should I let them out of my mind?
What repercussions might there be,
if I dare reveal the hidden essence of me?
Will I be ridiculed and mocked?
Should I leave these stories locked
up in the cages of my inner managerie?
Or should I with my magic key,
Open wide the gates and set them free?
Would you still respect me in the morning?
Another, called "Seeds of Sorrow"
The seeds of sorrow were planted in me,
oh so long ago.
Many came to tend the seeds,
to feed them and watch them grow.
When e'er a wildflower dared to bloom
it was cut down by shovel or hoe.
Hence the garden you now see,
is filled with despair and woe.
The garden next door is filled with light;
with fragrances and colors bright.
It was sown with seeds of joy,
tended lovingly by one small boy.
He was always laughing and running,
while my gardeners were shamefully cunning.
Sometimes I wonder, if I pray,
Might I have a little boy one day,
who'll bring me a bit of life's spark,
to chase away the awful dark?
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