Reflections of My Heart: Poets Yet to Come

Photo of a small white cloud above green fields

I wrote this poem on a beautiful spring day in 1984, just about a year before I graduated from Santa Monica Community College. It was a Saturday in the middle of May. My mentor Robert and I walked down to Douglas Park, at 25th Street and Wilshire in Santa Monica, backpacks loaded with our favorite books and some lunch. We were going to read our most adored authors, write, and hang out in the park I used to go to after summer camp, back in 1959, when I was a child.

We read our favorites of William Wordsworth’s English Romantic poetry, “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud,” “The World is Too Much With Us, and “The Solitary Reaper.” Another poet from the past we adored was Walt Whitman, especially “O’ Captain My Captain,” “Poets to Come,” and his book Leaves Of Grass. We wanted the words to seep into our hearts and minds, like sweet wine. We wanted the language to filter into our senses.

So we took a break, putting down the books on a beautiful quilted blanket, out of view and harm’s way. I immersed myself in my thoughts, where I could scratch out this poem on paper. It took me to a spiritual place I’d never been before.

Sentimental, yes. The park brought back memories of childhood, feelings from time past. The warmth of the pond, the comfort of the tree that had grown bigger, more substantial, yet still stood, reminiscent of 17 years past. Especially finding myself staring into the pond, intermittently looking up, sharing this with my closest, dearest, mentor and friend.

A bright white light appeared, pulling me. Its energy caused a movement towards me. I looked into the pond, then into the old oak tree, then, inwardly. Why? I asked myself. Was it trying to tell me something? The light kept shining. It kept shining its light intensity on me. I took a deep breath. When I saw the celestial sphere indicating that something had taken place. What was it? I asked. Then I realized I had come full circle. I had changed, so the universe let me have a glimpse, a glimpse of me.

A recognition of all I had gone through arose in this short period, a flash-back into my earlier life. It was like a scene in a story, a view from a different perspective, of something that is inevitable.

My willingness, my devotion, my courage to work hard and grow up to be able to fit into society. I learned to accept myself unconditionally. It wasn’t easy. I’d be lying if I said it were. But I also wouldn’t be the person I am today, if I hadn’t faced my issues and feelings head on—and kept on.

I wouldn’t be brave. I wouldn’t be courageous. And I certainly wouldn’t be strong. I wouldn’t have fought with all my heart and might. All these emotions ran in overdrive as I sat, sharing.

I wouldn’t have the voice I have today or found myself and my way. Like the principal of my alma mater said back in 2007, after I spoke as the Valedictorian of my graduating class, “Now they know the impossible is POSSIBLE … and what a survivor you are to have overcome such tremendous barriers of bias and discrimination to evolve into this phenomenal force.”

I looked up at Robert and said, “Thank you for being my teacher and friend. Thank you for all the things you’ve done for me. You are the one who has made learning a joy and a possibility for me.”

He said, “Did you ever think of what you did for me, Kitten? You inspired me to go back to school and become a teacher.”

“I did that?”

“Yes, you did! You changed my life!”

Nothing else was said. We were two contented people, reading books of poetry in the hot ruby sun.

Then I dropped into my book, immersed in it, and wrote this poem. It came through me in a moment’s time.

Poets Yet to Come

Under the ruby red sun,
My pen etches shadows
Upon the mint green grass,
While we scholars sit
Reading our books,
Of great poets of the past,
And dream of
Poets yet to come!

You can order my poetry collection, including this poem, here: Reflections of My Heart.

Original text ©2024 by Karen Lynn-Chlup. All rights reserved. Image by Steve F, CC BY-SA 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons.

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