Poems: Love or Otherwise

I have no love for poetry. I have tried, believe me you. I find that for me most poetry hits one of two extremes:  too schmaltzy, or incomprehensible in its abstractness. Of course, the exception always proves the rule, and I have read or heard poetry that I have downright enjoyed.

This enjoyment, and maybe the reason why I still give poetry a chance, may be the result of my belief that within every type of media genre, food category, political affiliations, or whatever class of items and ideas that you can have opinions on, there is likely at least one thing/person/author/idea/aspect that you will find palatable in that category. For instance, I do not enjoy heavy metal, but I absolutely love Metallica. In fact for years I have harbored a secret hope that one day they will come and play at my backyard birthday party, simply based on the fact that they heard about the love I have for them.

Side note: I have realized over the years that this very belief has helped me keep an open mind because it allows me to continue to listen to and contemplate ideas and arguments about things that I’ve already formed opinions on. But I digress. I’m sure there will be more on this topic later.

Phew. The reason I bring up this poetry business is that I feel an inexplicable need to share a poem called “Allen’s Extra Toe” that I wrote for a college writing class. I’m not sure why I feel this need, as the poem is a downright silly, rhyming kind of poem.

Allen’s Extra Toe
I didn’t even have a say
When they cut my toe away.
I miss that toe so terribly,
Although it was no use to me.
We could have run and jumped and played,
Instead it’s gone, cut off, decayed.
I could have named it something fun,
Like George…
Max…
Frank…
Algernon!
I suppose my parents were wise
Sending that toe to its demise.
My shoes never would have fit,
But I’d’ve gotten used to it.
Some kids may have teased and taunted,
But I know I’d’ve been undaunted,
And shown my toe by wearing sandals,
Stirring up a local scandal.
As it is I’m down to ten,
But if I could have it back again,
I know my folks would finally see,
Eleven toes were great for me.

The premise of the poem is true; my oldest brother was born with an eleventh toe, which was promptly removed. His extra pinky toe came complete with toenail, but absent of bones. However, I highly doubt my brother ever daydreamed about his missing extra toe. He is a far too sensible forward-thinker to dream about a toe he never remembers meeting.