A new blog for a new website for a new decade early in a new century. The imperative to write something meaningful hits me, knocks me down and reminds me that once upon a time I had poetic thoughts about mundane things that would lead me to scribble and type way into the late night, even past midnight with a bottle of Folinari white wine next to me.
I have been writing poetry since I was five. My very first taste of fame still leaves me awestruck remembering my poem hanging on the bulletin board in front of Mr. Lipschitz our principals office at P.S. 96 on Waring Avenue in the Bronx. I had written and illustrated the poem with crayons. On the day of the big reveal I wore a red satin-quilted round skirt. I could twirl. I could wear fancy underwear and whirl around on my toes feeling girlie and smart at the same time. I could tap my MaryJane patent shoes and hear them skitter on the odd wooden floor outside just a few office in P.S. 96 where the floors were never tiled.
One taste of that sensation of adoration after toiling on the poem in the sadness of my time out for disobedience at home, and I was hooked on writing for love.
It’s 2020, and I am still writing, not for the love of others but for the peace and predictable gift of stopping time when I am writing. Wow! It’s afternoon already, who knew? Time passed. I wrote, and still write, calmly.
It has never been an illusion for me. The very fact that I have had several careers where writing was a rewarded skill set, and that I have had many successes in publishing poems and other literary ramblings, plus the gift of all gifts enabling others to write is my most meaningful inventory for this 2020.
Ina Chadwick Age 5,
There are some birds yellow and blue
They sing for me they sing for you
When it’s cold they fly down south
And there they make their winter house
Post Script. I later named this poem Jew Birds because the old people I knew, Jews, all went South for the winter.
