The prompt over at NaPoWriMo went something like this:
Today, let’s turn our vision outward, and write fan letters. I challenge you to write a poem in the form of a fan letter to a celebrity. Now, this could be a celebrity from long ago, and needn’t be an actor or singer (though it could be). You could write to George Washington or Dorothy Dandridge, Marie Curie or The Weeknd
Honestly, I'm not too big on fan letters. Most of the people whom I'd like to write letters to are dead already (it's morbid, but true).
This prompt did make me remember some of the music of my childhood. The way the lyrics could almost channel new emotion, transcend the space where I was and take me to some other realm if I listened closely enough.
I was always a fan of Michael Jackson. That didn't go over too well in the little country town I came from. I just never was a country fan (sorry folks).
Anyway, here is my result from the prompt. It felt a lot like a steady stream of conscious as I wrote it. I probably will edit it quite a bit, but this is the first draft.
Letter to 'The King'
This is a short story, as monumental
as can be desired of an eleven-year-old girl
exploring the world.
The story of my arrival to a house
built of brick and piles of shoes left
next to a front door where the stereo sat,
it's antique perch of wooden drawers
an esoteric eye-sore with a side-view,
a place where my fingertips shed the
childhood depth of Sunday School
for music made of 'sin,' the undulation
of curves found in my hip-swing.
I adorned my body of your song lyrics,
threw my whole self center-sway
into the gut-wrench and gossamer
of your sad chord-strings.
I skirted around my twelve-year-old menstruation,
dodged the bad boys with silver bikes and long hair
for the dream-being of your creamed skin.
I refused the heart-throb posters of
Teen magazine and chose, instead, to write
the black letters of your name across
my journal and dream you beside me as I did.
I carried your tune with me, stiff contrast
to country flowers and fields full of cucumber and corn.
I sauteed your name as I churned
spoons-full of chilli beside my mother
and left smears of your songs against
the stiff polyester of kitchen aprons.
Your words carried me beyond the slippery
moss of project brick into wax-floored
locker-rooms where prettier girls stood naked,
dumbfound against the pale, plain skin
of my still-inexperienced fifteen.
I found the comfort of your voice,
the lost kindness of a once-close friend,
in porch swings where the world belonged
only to me and my daydreams.
A decade later, I find you still.
I return to your song much the same as I
return from a vacation, a sub-tropic drop
in temperature; a return from marriage,
a return to some long-ago November.
I've come back not really for your voice,
but for the self-reflected acceptance
in the fact that I, in some Freudian sense of space,
have returned to the bare shell of myself.
There's no one left to find me at that
house in the country, the classroom chairs
have long since forgotten the feel
of my weight and skin.
I return anyway, to the familiar,
because I must touch my tongue to
the song-chord of yesterday before
I speak to the me I'll find sitting,
reading comfortably in the arm-chair of tomorrow,
right-side of her face turned towards a
window where she can almost feel
the soft, lost spring of fifteen.