by Bethany Garretson
In honor of National Poetry Month, I’m submitting the first poem I wrote when I was a student at Paul Smith’s College in 2007.
At this time in my life, poetry intimidated me. I hadn’t enjoyed English in high school and vividly remember walking into Pickett with a lump of dread in my gut. Our instructor was a young spirited adjunct who believed and emphasized poetry is what you interpret it to be. “There are no rules. Write about what you know,” she said.
I don’t remember my teacher’s name and that frustrates me because she left such an impact on my life. It was a combination of being in a new inspiring place and having a brand new tool to express myself that brought me to really love writing. I truly cherish the poems and stories I wrote while being a Paul Smith’s Student, they allow me to reflect on my experience in a whole different dimension.
*After note: Her name was Heidi Millea. I looked the class up in Self-Service: Tue Thur 11:10-12:35, Pickett 221. During the course of the semester, she required us to submit a poem to a poetry journal. “When the Woods Get Dark,” made it to the finals of a national contest.
When the Woods Get Dark
I use a compass when I walk through the woods—
It doesn’t point north or south, but the bearings are good.
I’ve climbed over boulders, bad kisses, and lies—
Oh, and that awful haircut— I thought I would die.
I’ve squeezed through crevices, dilemmas, and colds—
And fought with the fear of growing old.
I’ve fallen from trees and tumbled down hills—
Had a rainbow of casts and pharmacy of pills.
Yes, I have scars— hundreds in fact—
They cover my arms, knees, and back.
They are my guides— those grayish pink marks—
Lighting my way when the woods get dark.