Shibata Zeshin: A bag (1866)

"…the world sure seemed to be her oyster."

I might be most skilled at creating complications for myself. This tendency never seems more present than when one of my grandchildren's birthdays approaches. Then, I feel compelled to live up to a little tradition of my own making, one that complicates what I might otherwise approach as a genuine celebration. (I reliably transform this opportunity into an obligation, and not just any odd old one, either, but a genuinely impossible-to-fulfill one.) Where I might have penned a small, short poem to the celebrant, tradition calls for a full-blown Bag Poem. A Bag Poem typically covers both sides of a paper shopping bag and runs three or four stanzas.

I never know where to start, though I have more than a decade of experience creating these. I've never failed to complete one, but I've also never failed to feel as though I couldn't possibly create another one, either. This reliably delivers a 'want-to, need-to, but can't' dilemma, which I must wrestle to ground to finish the present. This wrestling match always takes me backwards rather than forward at first, as if I might make progress through regression. I am experienced enough at my age to understand that I cannot rely on past success, for each Birthday Bag Poem must be original enough to address current topics. Each must be fitted into the world our birthday boy or girl inhabits, serving as a sort of time capsule that marks the moment in time.

Never knowing where to begin seems to be where I reliably start. From there to backward, even though I know I will not find much besides reassurance there, though past successes easily overwhelm my sense of possibility. Maybe I've already used up all the creativity originally allotted me. I feel as if I might have become a has-been. My imposter syndrome kicks in. The Muse might notice long pregnant pauses in my presence. I sure seem to be spending a lot of time alone with my eyes closed without sleeping. I'm conjuring then, hoping to skip into a groove, for Bag Poetry depends upon a stream of consciousness. Any impartial observer might swear that I just sat down and started writing there, as if engaged in writing prose, but I'm extruding a singular sort of poetry. A prose poem results.

The inspiration had to come first. These often come disembodied: a word or simple phrase with no supporting scenery or characters. I cogitate on those, for I will reject a few before finally choosing, or is it the inspiration itself that chose? I become possessed by the notion. I catch myself spouting lines as if declaiming some gothic work. I eventually begin to see some possibilities. The disembodied notion begins to take on a life of its own. Then, after a terribly long time stuck, I feel my words flowing again. I begin and am finished almost before I get started. The result edits as easily as it created. Nearly nothing ever changes from the first draft to the final copy. Transcribing it to the bag using a permanent Sharpie tends to be the most challenging part of the process. Nobody can read the resulting handwriting very well.

I am saved by then, well on the way to the redemption I hardly deserve. I procrastinated, or, said another way, I waited out that muse, which had always visited before. I practiced being one of those with little faith. This feeds my humility better than it ever feeds my ego. A birthday poem, though, shouldn't ever be about the poet. It must focus upon the story it's telling to the birthday boy or girl as if they are the center of the universe, which they will be when celebrating their birthday. The Bag Poem will be read between distracting cake and more tangible presents. It will get set aside to be resurrected on some odd bedtime in lieu of the usual bednight story. There, it will elicit a moment in time when the listener had just turned ten and the world sure seemed to be her oyster.

Stylin'
"As the unquestioned Stylin’Queen of this family,
I, your grandfather, wish you a very happy birthday,
a little late, as it so happens,
the sort of gift one tends to get when dealing with us older humans.
Stylin’ carries a fluid definition.
It means something completely different today
than it seemingly did just yesterday,
and radically different from fifty years ago,
when I last considered myself Stylin’, too.
(I hear that snickering!
I cut quite the profile in my youth,
though, to tell the truth,
not all that great when compared to yours.)"

…

©2025 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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