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The Poet Annie wants to be a poet when she grows up. Annie already IS a poet. She carries around a spiral notebook, jotting down whatever strikes her as interesting. Her words snap pictures of the ephemeral moments and moods that most of us plow through daily without serious reflection. Some of them are carefree, others fretful — the stuff of life. Poets, true poets, do not sugar coat. Poets neither fear pity nor solicit envy. They stir our souls by connecting with those secret emotions we toil to masquerade. One day about six months ago, Annie, then a fifth grader, entered into a heated property dispute with her younger sister. Her frustrations were compounded by her parents’ insistence that she practice her harp. Still seething, she poured her anguish onto paper. For a poet, hurt and anger can be useful. Annie saw she had created something quite special. So she asked her mom if she could send it to a newspaper that occasionally runs children’s poetry. Her mother read the poem with silent dismay. You write so many upbeat poems, she reminded her daughter. Why not submit one of those? But Annie liked THIS poem. She’s a poet, conceded her mother. I shouldn’t censor her, shouldn’t squash her creativity. Half a year passed. Annie graduated to middle school. Even she forgot about her stab at publication. It’s a competitive world out there — so much poetry, so little space. Then, as though out of the blue, the poem appeared — identifying Annie by first name, city and old elementary school... “I am alone/ I am a silent gray cloud floating/ Around/ I am a figure in the black night sky/ I am a person that is not one/ I am used only to yell at, and nothing/ More/ I am alone/ I am invisible to all/ I am used only to entertain/ I am not anywhere, but where I am/ I am unimportant/ I am alone.” Annie was rightfully ecstatic over her achievement. Her parents, though, felt wary. The poem makes Annie’s home life sound so gloomy, confided the dad to the mom. Now, what can I say to assure you that Annie is a happy, well–adjusted child? That I look to her parents, both teachers, as role models? That they are sensitive and kind and calm and wise and loving? That the entire family is delightful? The next day, Annie’s mom received a jarring telephone call from the elementary school. We need to talk to you, the principal said. It’s urgent. She hurried off to Annie’s former school, where she found herself in an a somber meeting with the principal and vice principal. We have been inundated with calls and letters about Annie, they informed. Concerned people want to rescue the poor child from her bleak environment. What was the impetus of this poem? Unnerved, Annie’s mother muddled through an explanation that bordered on a defense. What could she say to assure them that Annie is a happy, well–adjusted child? Somehow, she managed. By the time she left, everyone acted more at ease. It was a disarming page in the book of parenthood. Yet how touching, Annie’s parents realized, that so many hearts reached out to help a little girl they didn’t know. As for Annie — well, she’s a poet. And a published poet, at that. Her readers can interpret as they will, think what they may. That’s the power of poetry. The writer: Susan Goulding is a Southern California freelance writer who writes for People magazine, Readers Digest and other publications. She wrote this column for The Daily Breeze and shared it with CaliforniaAuthors. The postscript: The poem written by 11-year-old Annie of Seal Beach appeared in “The Kids’ Reading Room” section of The Los Angeles Times on Friday, Oct. 18. The newspaper ran this follow up note called “A Message from Anielle” on Oct. 25:
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