The Life You Have
- Sara Tucker
- 1 day ago
- 2 min read
The prompt: Write a poem that includes the phrase "The life you have."
Nothing helps the writing process like a long walk in the woods. Walk or no walk, my attempts at writing poetry are generally lamentable. The writers in my Friday workshop, however, love writing poetry (and many of them are really good at it), so I asked one of them to lead us in a few exercises. The assignment he gave us: Write a poem that begins with the phrase "The life you have . . . " This morning, I started my homework, then I went for a long walk, then I finished my homework. Still not a poet, but I can at least say I did the exercise.
THE LIFE YOU HAVE
The life you have
Is not the one
You sought when you were wild.
Back then, so young
You dreamed of stars
Of glitter, gold—oh, child!
At four; you dreamed
of writing books.
And drawing pictures too.
The words you wrote
Could not be read
By anyone but you.
Their squiggly shapes
Were fun to trace.
The writing swirled and flowed.
Each dot, each dash
A symbol in
Your special secret code.
And then you learned
The rules set down
By Webster and his kind.
Okay, you said
And plunged ahead
With accolades in mind.
From squiggles was
A writer born
A writing life begun.
Those early words
Were practice for
The work that was to come.
Like polliwogs,
Like seeds, like ants,
They crawled across the page.
Arranged just so
In careful rows
They waited to engage . . .
The eye, the ear
The mind, the heart
Of every living soul . . .
Your mom, your dad,
The boy next door
And every four-year-old.
Because to be
A writer, see,
Was something very good.
One never knew
Where it might lead.
One only knew it would.
I suppose I could add a few verses about how things have turned out. I dunno. What do you think? Is it done?
In case you're wondering, I never did win a National Book Award, or a Pulitzer, or anything like that, but it's okay. In the end, you don't do it for the accolades. You do it for you. Once a writer, always a writer. It's a difficult habit to break.
