Not a poet.

“It’s nice that you got in, Liz, but it’s just a small local contest. Not that big of a deal. And besides, you’re not really a poet.”

Not really a poet. That’s what the “real poet” I knew told me the day I got accepted to a local poetry contest. I was overwhelmed with excitement, I told everyone I knew. I had finally worked up the courage to submit a poem, and it had won an award. I was going to read it in front of people.

Gulp.

I was going to read it in front of people.

I had written more poems than I could count, starting in ninth grade when I hadn’t completed an assignment. We were supposed to write a two page reaction to the film “Schindlers List”, which we had gone to the theater to see a few days before. All I could manage were random words, bits and pieces of sentences, images that wouldn’t leave my head. I was distraught over the film, somewhat embarrassed that I began crying within the first half hour and didn’t stop until we left the theater. I sat in fifth hour Algebra while Mr. Dorking (yes, his real name) urged us to solve for x and tried to organize the words and phrases I had written on my paper. I found a poem in there, not that I knew what a poem what since poetry was never a part of English instruction, but I liked the way it sounded in my head, the way it looked on the page. Mostly I liked that I’d at least have something to hand in sixth hour. The poem came back to me two days later, with a note from the teacher: “Liz, this was not the assignment you were given, but it is a wonderful poem. Keep up the good work.” I had fooled her. My poem was fifteen lines. I got an A for writing fifteen lines when everyone else had to write two pages.

I loved poetry.

I kept writing, through college in fact. Took poetry workshops where undergrads dressed in black held their noses as they waded through my poems. I wasn’t “dark” enough for them; they said my poetry lacked depth.

I agreed.

And kept writing.

Which brought me to that local contest.

I was about to share a poem with people I didn’t know.

Never having felt shy before, I didn’t know what to do with the emotion when it hit me that day.

Leaning over to my Mom I whispered in her ear, “Please don’t be mad at me. It’s just a poem.”

I swallowed hard, breathed through my nose and didn’t trip as I walked onto the stage.

I’ve written dozens of poems since then. I participated in a workshop with poets that I now call friends and yet still intimidate me with their talent.

That night I became a poet.

It happened because of this poem:

Absolut Holiness

She stopped believing

in wine as her savior

instead

she turned to Vodka.

Depending on her

consistently fluxuating bank account

its flavor wavered

from smooth lemon twist of Citron

straight from the freezer

to the gallon of Five O’clock

stashed in the trunk of her ’87 Golf.

Vodka was a prayer

for moral sanctuary

emotional exile

physical release.

With each drink

her mother’s voice echoed

“Are you going to Mass this week?”

And her reply

“Only if that chalice is filled with

Absolut Holiness

instead of table wine.”

I’ll never be famous for my poetry.

There may always be people that tell me I’m not a poet.

I might even agree with them.

I’ll just keep writing