Uncle Jim shoeing a horse, and my cousins; it looks like Barney is pictured left, and Tamra in the middle. Banner: close up my self-portrait.

Olan the Poet

Was I always a poet, nope. Was I writing poetry before I could walk, nope. I grew into becoming a poet, more or less like breaking in a pair of cowboy boots. My Uncle Jim Wescott, the only cowboy in the family told me once, "If you want to break in a pair of leather cowboy boots you soak them in the creek, put them on your feet and don't take them off until they're dry." Jim lived in New Mexico were I'm sure it was easier to dry boots in a single day, than it is in the humidity of Missouri, and I wasn't sure he was talking straight with me or pulling my leg, but being the teenager that was what I did, and they were most comfortable boots I've worn, but God, taking them off was torture. So it is with writing poems; you wear the skin of a poet, and you become the poet. I've touched on the subject of becoming a poet earlier, but I will refresh your memory. I didn't write my first poem, to my recollection until 1974, but a dear friend, Alice, swears I wrote a poem for her in 1973, but I don't remember that and since this is my memoir and not hers, I will have to go with my recall.

I started writing in college in 1974, the earliest dates I can find in my early poetry journals. Oh, sure I was making up dirty rhymes in high school, but they were not written down, and a friend asked, "Did you make that up?" and I would reply yes, and they said, "Nah, you didn't." Everyone considers themselves to be a poet. Right? I mean, how hard is it? Yes, anyone can write a poem that's true enough, and what defines a poet; is to be the poem? The writer just has to claim it is one. It doesn't have to rhyme, it doesn't need a beat, hell, it doesn't even have to look like a poem, it can be block style, prose, or it can be in strict constrains form like haiku to monostich, from odes to sonnets; the list is literally endless. You can even make a style and call it your own, but make sure someone hasn't created that style before you claim the credit. In other words, you can write anything and then say you're a poet.

A person from Wattpad came to me and asked me what a good poem is; I assume they wanted a standard to judge poetry. I said, "A good poem is one that after you read it you say. 'That is nice, but a great poem is one that makes you do a double take, and makes you ask, 'Wow! What did I just read?" In other words it is personal, what makes the reader do a double take is what you call great. If you write poetry consistently and publish in print or online, you're a poet, or if you squirrel them away for your sister to find and publish posthumously, you're a poet. Poetry lovers determine if you're a poet, and you also make the determination that you're a poet.

I dated a young woman at NCC and we walked across the University of Oregon's quad. I recite poetry to her, and I make it up as I go. I write it down, and it became my first written poem. I guess you'll have to write it down to become a poet; so carry a pocket notebook with you, or in today's world you have it on you're phone. That was the start of my poetry writing, but nothing serious, little hexameter with the sing-song beat of da DAH / da DAH / da DAH / da DAH /da DAH / da DAH containing twelve syllables; easy nonsense that comes off the top of your head, and put four of those lines together, rhyme every other one and you've got a verse for a light song or the start of a ballad. Guess what? You're a poet.

Then I met Darlene, and we became inseparable, well, except for classes, but we arranged one class together, and it was "Appreciation of Poetry." She thought it was romantic, and I believed it would be boring, but it was anything but boring, and I learned of John Dunne, of Keats, and Emily Dickinson. I was blown away with poetry, and it so happened that the professor of the class was my student advisor for the year, Dr. Cornelia Barnhart. We spent a lot of time together that year, and she became my first poetry mentor, and personal friend. She started me out on the strictest of constraints to write poetry, the haiku, and I graduated to free verse. She said to me, "There is nothing worse than to read a poet who writes verbiage. The time of people is valuable, so, don't waste their time writing worthless poetry." At the end of my college career at NCC, she recommended me to Dr. LeRoy Lane, and his new English textbook, "By All Means Communicate." He asked me to write a short poem about words, but I never knew if he used it or not, but I have here, and his textbook became widely used in universities. I assume my poem wasn't published, and in 1985 I rewrite it, and send it out to be published, and it was printed by the University of Miami's Literary Society's calendar.

Words

©1985, Olan L. Smith

Listless-

Foreboding-

Souls exist

Searching-

For listening ears

Of loving hearts,

Burdens are too heavy

For one to bear;

Words are for two

Souls to share.

By the time of the publication, I was married to Beth, and it was near the time of our divorce. I sent out four, and three are published. I was preaching at the Methodist Church in northwest Missouri, and in our church was an Illinois transplant, Deloris. She was the former editor of a small poetry magazine, and she took me under her wing, and became my second poetry mentor. I was there to learn, and she warned me, "I'm a harsh editor. I won't sweet talk you, and if you give me your poetry expect it to be marked heavily." Again, I heard these words, "Time is valuable, don't waste my time, or that of the readers with a lot of verbiage." Okay, I get the point. She further states, "If you can say something in one word instead of three, choose the one, unless the constraint of the poem asks for it." I spent a year working with her, she was a good thirty years older and married, so the church didn't wonder what's going on with the pastor and this woman, but they did get a little jealous of the time I spend with her, or that I didn't do my work. I did my work and more for them, plus, Beth was a co-minister, so they let it slide. When I first published my poetry; my mentor; Deloris said to me, "You must really be good. Most people who send out their work never hear back from them. Here you go and get three out of four published on your first try." I owe it to her. Without the tutelage I would've sent wordy crap that they would've ignored, but I had a great teacher. Soon, however, I got fired from my teaching job, and then divorced. My will was broken, and I associated, however illogical it seems, that I also associated my poetry with the divorce. I ended up divorcing poetry. I will not publish, again, until I come online in 2008 when I join the online group, "Original Poetry."

Bam, like magic I pick up right where I left off. I was well accepted by my fellow poets, we form a close friendship, I enter contests and I win, several of them. I was asked to enter another contest, and I write my anti-bullying/anti-suicide poem "Victimized" and I was selected as one of the top three winners.

Victimized

©2010, Olan L. Smith

(Submitted: Kenneth Wooden Birthday Contest, first published OriginalPoetry dot com)

Cold steel rests heavy in my hand—

Gleaming blackness of death's lure looming―

I spin its cylinder first left, then right and hear each tick―

Distinctive in its sound, as the drum whirls round―

My heart pounds in a moment's glooming

Drawing back the hammer I pull its trigger—

click.

Five more chances, perhaps— only one

Till I breathe my last and exhale―

'Tis mortality's liberation―

Your words positioned me at this precipice

Balancing on one foot― I teeter.

Calmness pervades my essence

Even now, I hear your dreadful words

And your laughter edges me closer―

Death's door doth not linger anymore―

I perceive its expanses plainly beckoning me

A voice whispers, "Come closer."

As we passed in life's hallways you were always

Pointing, scorning me and vocally berating―

Others gathered and joined your taunting

I am corralled because I am dissimilar―

I am taller; shorter, smarter, Buddhist or I am gay―

It matters not to you for your hatefulness

Drives me here to this ledge― whence I cannot retreat.

Click—

Four more times, one I hope—

I pray this is the one that releases me from you.

I do not want to live, "Mother forgive me—

I tried; I really did. I am an utter failure."

I press the barrel harder to my temple

Willing this moment will be my forever

And I will not have to endure this one second more.

Click―

Three more, perhaps only one

Father, I did not know you―

You left when I was four

But forgive me nonetheless.

I release my grasp, am I losing my will?

I wonder if it will hurt.

What will my brother assume?

Forgive me brother for I love you

But you could not protect me, no one could—

Not you or my teachers, though I told you my awful pain.

I do not remember the moment or feeling a bullet enter my brain

It did hurt; I remember that. Then an angel came and pulled me back.

I recalled looking down to where my head lay shattered, pouring blood in a steamy mist.

"Where am I going?" I plead. "My dear child― we are going home."

Not long afterwards the group lost its administrator and infighting ensues. I wish poets could be nice to each other, but they aren't; they're just like any other group of humans, belligerent. Soon one person was asking me to settle their argument, and I was a newcomer to the group, with a little over a year's experience, but they plead their case. I heard both sides and I witnessed both sides of the argument, some in real time as it was posted, and I know who should be ousted, but I was not an administrator; I was just a poet. I wanted a peaceful place to simply write my poetry or prose. A group of about one hundred of us pick up and move away, though officially I'm still a member; I seldom visit the site. That moment was a magical time, where facedown I found some of the best poets of that era gathered, and magic happened. Many of us are still connected by Facebook or email. Some ended up here, some lit here and moved on, but a couple of others are the only ones still active on Wattpad. If you want to see their faces, I've painted many of them in 2019 and you can view them on YouTube.

Wattpad has that same magic, but in a different way. When I first started here in 2011, we poets were outsiders, hanger-ons. The font is fixed, it is very hard to write shaped poems, and we were basically ignored, but there were more than a few of us, and over the years we have carved out a very lovely niche for ourselves. We have become viable and an important part of the Wattpad world. Here on Wattpad the talent of poets is immeasurable, and I am always stopping, doing a double take and asking, "Wow, what did I just read!"