"A Poem Lovely As a Tree", Part 1 (the wounded writer series)

A poem lovely as a tree . . .

I trusted my grade-school teacher implicitly and completely. Didn’t we all?

Mrs. Bloom was not the breath of spring that her name implies. She was a hard woman, sculpted by the sharp edges of her rules and regulations. It was difficult to find joy in her classroom, as still as we were made to sit in our seats and as straight as we had to line up at the chalkboard to recite whatever poem she had assigned us to memorize. Will I ever be grateful that one such assignment was Trees by A.A. Milne? Not exactly. I’ll never forget those first lines, though: “I think that I shall never see, a poem lovely as a tree.”

Yet it was with huge joy that I approached her at the end of class one day, clutching a poem that I’d labored over in the days before. I can still feel the smile on my face when I approached her, and Mrs. Bloom’s clear displeasure at seeing me standing next to her desk didn’t dampen my excitement. 

I don’t remember her verbal acknowledgement, or her inquiry as to what it was I wanted from her, only that she stood, and that I told her in the messy way of a young person that I’d written a poem, and that I wanted to show it to her.

She took it from me, and I know I kept grinning with innocent hope much the way Ralph did in A Christmas Story, as he waited for his teacher to read his essay about what he wanted for Christmas that year.

If you’re one of the handful of people on the planet who hasn’t seen that movie, I’ll try not to spoil that scene too much by saying that Ralphie’s teacher missed the point. It was never about what Ralphie wanted for Christmas, or dare I add, how well it was written. At that age, it was about his sense of accomplishment, how he communicated his ultimate Christmas wish.

Not only did Miss Shields miss the point, so did Mrs. Bloom—wildly and destructively. She looked up from the paper she held with my poem neatly written on it. I’m sure I met her cynical gaze with the eager anticipation I still felt.

My poem was simple, and painfully full of rhyme, as are the early attempts at poetry of many kids. From what little I remember, it probably wasn’t very good (I mean, the first two lines were “Her name is Queen Elizabeth, Queen Elizabeth is her name”)—but again, not the point.

“Well,” Mrs. Bloom began (and I held onto a shred of hope for a moment longer not that she would say that it was a good poem, but that she would validate the effort), “it’s pretty good—if you wrote it.”

I can think of so many ways to describe how I felt in that moment. Like someone had dragged the needle across a vinyl record of my favorite song. Like I’d just wiped out at the roller rink knees first, and the kid next to me skated over the fingers of the hand I’d used to break my fall. Some would say I’m being too dramatic (“why not just say you were disappointed?”) Because for a creative person, especially at that age, it’s not just disappointing—it’s soul withering. . . dream crushing. You get the idea.

“I’ll just hang onto this for now,” Mrs. Bloom continued. “You can have it back at the end of the school year.”

Find out what happens next in Part 2.

In the meantime, are your creative wounds holding you back in your writing practice? Let's talk.

I’m a writer of magical realism, a mentor to women writers of all ages, and a story magic archaeologist. I hold an MFA in Creative Writing, and I live in Los Angeles with my husband and our two Imp Muses (cats) Stanley and Sofia. Join my mailing list and you will be eligible for a free touchstone session in support of your writing life.

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