Friday, May 30, 2008

Poetry

Over at the Good Girls Kill for Money Club, Tasha Alexander shares a poem she wrote when she was six years old. I was reminded of another poem, one I read when I was teaching high school in Corsicana, Texas, about 45 years ago. I was visiting a grade school teacher who showed me the following verse written by one of her students:

There was an old man
Who lived in a can.
When it rained
He had a pain
And when it poured
He growed a gourd.

Say what you will about the grammar, but I've remembered that poem far longer than many others, probably hundreds of them, that I've read in the years since. I don't know what happened to the kid who wrote it, and I don't think I never knew his name, but there's the poem, still with me after so long a time. If that's not literature, what is?

2 comments:

Doc Quatermass said...

Here I sit all broken hearted,
tried to sh*t, but only farted.

That has stayed with me since my early adolescence. It seems that the stupidest, grossest jokes that I'd like to forget have stayed with me from my childhood (I've long been praised for a phenomenal memory, which has been less reliable since my 40s and 50s and brain cramps seem more the norm).

Bill Crider said...

I can almost remember when I had a good memory.