Letter to a Young Poet

Before I do this poem, I just want to make one thing clear: I think Christine Daie should've ended up with the Phantom, not Raoul. I know Raoul has nice cheekbones and he's not crazy and doesn't drop chandeliers on people, but I don't care.

This poem is for anyone thinking of becoming a poet.

Dear Young Man,

(I don't know why I assume you're a boy and not a girl. Maybe you can be a girl, and if you are, you can be pissed off that I just assumed you were a boy and it will fuel your poetry.) Here's some advice:

#1. Be pissed off.

Smiles and rainbows are for children's cereal commercials. And kittens make for great online videos, but don't actually inspire anybody.

#2. Get a notebook and carry it around with you everywhere.

#3. Begin the ever-elusive search for the perfect pen.

You'll never find it.

#4. Get rid of your X-box.

Not only will this give you the time you need to write, it will make one of your friends very happy (because you gave him an X-box).

#5. Friends are overrated.

I'm not saying you have to get rid of all your friends. Just most of them.

#6. Be yourself.

I have no idea what this means. Maybe quit trying to be like everyone else. I don't know. But don't be too proud of this. It's like vegetarians- or people who don't own televisions. Good for you. Now leave me alone while I eat a bacon burger and watch New Girl.

#7. Look around.

Poets are different. They don't look at the world the same way as everyone else. So pay attention and remember: you're always working.

#8. Don't do drugs.

You may have heard that LSD can enhance creativity, but mostly it just makes you paranoid and delusional and HOW DID ALL THESE BIRDS GET IN HERE?!?!

#9. Read.

If you don't have a library card you are a waste of taxpayer offspring.

#10. Don't become a poet.

Seriously, forget everything I just said. If you really want my advice, listen up.

Close the notebook and put it back in your backpack.

Don't let anyone catch you sitting alone during lunch. That's social suicide. And don't actually give away that X-box your parents gave you for Christmas, are you crazy? Don't get caught noticing the world.

Grab a napkin and wipe that heart off your sleeve. Tell everyone it's ketchup. If you can't get it out, try a little cough syrup and mix it with alcohol. Sometimes it leads to death and even worse, never moving out of your parents' basement. But these are all better than embarrassment and not fitting in. Being yourself only works on the Disney channel and Different is only good in Arby's commercials.

You better spend less time worrying about which poem to write next and more time worrying about which belt goes good with those shoes, cuz honey we're going out tonight and everyone's gonna be there.

Make eye contact with people in suits. Shake their hands, don't worry about the dust. Anis Mojgani isn't a prophet. He's just some dude with a beard who sometimes puts videos on YouTube. I'm glad you're so enthusiastic about the idea of being an artist, but we're talking about the rest of your life here. Art school's only for autistic kids and wealthy orphans who have nothing better to do.

Pick up the phone and call Rauol back. Rauol! Get Rauol on the phone, damn it, and tell him you're sorry. Tell him it's over between you and the Phantom. You were just going through a phase, or you needed space, or whatever, but it's over now. It's over and you're ready to come home.

Quit trying to be different. Go back to the mall and return those pants you just bought. Apologize for the Sharpie stains on the pocket and be sure to ask for a receipt.  And while you're there you may as well ask for a job application.

The road not taken is full of long grass and branches. Nobody knows for sure where it goes, and it's unpopular for a reason. Don't worry about that voice you hear that sounds like it's coming from your heart.

It will go away soon.

Dear Brooklyn (a letter to my 3-year-old daughter)

a letter to billy the kid

Dear Mr. Bonney,

You probably don't know me, so let me introduce myself.

I'm 34 years old and I've never killed anybody.

I was born in July and I write poems at the dinner table.

I hope you weren't watching last Saturday when I tried to put Christmas lights on my house, Mr. Bonney. My fingers were cold and my wife had to help me. I hope you weren't watching when my son asked me to kill the spider on his ceiling. Because I probably didn't look like much of a man.

I let my daughter paint my toenails and our favorite game to play together is called Snuggles.

I've read a lot about you, Mr. Bonney. So I know how young you were when you first killed someone (12). And I know how many men you've killed (21). I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared of you.

I shot a pot gut once, Bonney. It's like a squirrel, but with smaller ears. I was 14 and I used my friend Justin's gun. I turned it to the side because that's what gangsters do and I blasted that little sucker. BOOM. The bullet went straight through his chest. As he fell back, his wallet fell out of his pocket. There were pictures of his kids and a ticket stub to a 7:00 movie. I think it was his anniversary. He looked up at me, confused. His lips mouthed the words Why? and I didn't know the answer. I haven't killed anything since.

Sometimes I dance in front of the mirror, Mr. Kid. Do you ever do that?

The last movie I watched had George Clooney and Sandra Bullock in it. And I cried. Have you seen that movie, Billy?I've always wanted to go to Space Camp, but I'm afraid of heights.

Oh, Billy. I pluck my eyebrows, Billy. I trim my nosehairs.And I drive a minivan. Help me! Help me, Billy! Tell me what it means to be a man.

Cause my hands are too soft. They don't have dirt on them. They don't have blood on them- unless you count all the hearts I've touched. But inspiration don't make no men. And that don't make no sense. So come on now Billy and answer me this. Can I still be a man if folks ain't scared of me? If folks ain't put no bounty on my head for 500 dollars? I don't shoot no guns, Billy. So what you saying: I ain't notorious? I ain't never lived in New Mexico, but I'm still an outlaw in my heart. I'm a cowboy. And I'm wanted, WANTED, dead or alive.

Sincerely,

Kyle J. Nelson, the first

p.s. That song was by Bon Jovi, I think.

p.p.s. I'm not really a cowboy.

p.p.p.s. What's heaven like? Oh wait, you're probably not there.

p.p.p.p.s. I'm tired of comparing myself to you, Billy.

p.p.p.p.p.s. Write back soon.

Dead Duck

The pond wasn't clean. But still, I didn't expect to see a body floating in it.

I don't know how I'm supposed to feel about ducks. I don't hang out around ponds and almost all of my friends are humans. I don't know what ducks eat or how they have babies. I don't know what they dream about or what they want to be when they grow up. I don't know what they're afraid of or how easy it is for them to fall in love.

But I know that duck was dead.

And I must've been the only one who noticed. Because everyone else had moved on. They were clearing their throats. They were having conversations about the weather. There was a young couple, strolling and laughing, as if they hadn't yet figured out that one day they were probably gonna break up. And a boy- he skipped rocks across the water like it wasn't going to be him some day. Maybe he was too young to understand or maybe the rocks were just his way of forgetting for a while.

Because we're all dead ducks. Even if we can't fly and even if we don't swim. We eat white bread that strangers give us and we jaywalk in the middle of the day.

We're like Daffy in that one episode with Bugs Bunny. (You know, the one where they're dancing.) Everyone's clapping for Bugs, because nobody roots for the underdog anymore. It's like every season is duck season. Rabbit season? Duck season. Then Daffy gets his beak shot off, but he keeps on dancing. Trying to get everyone's attention, but they're too busy skipping rocks or talking about the weather or falling in love.

This poem is not about ducks. And it's not about rabbits. It's about you and me and the water that surrounds us all. It's about our legs going a hundred miles an hour underneath. It's about all the reflections in all the ponds and why I couldn't help but see myself when I looked down at that duck.

Look at me trying to dry out my wet guts.
Look at you: you're all dead, you just haven't drowned yet.

And some day, just past the spot where your body floats, a young couple will walk by laughing - whispering nothing into each other's ears. And a boy will skip his rock across the water, as if he's gonna live forever.

helpful, but not

helpful, but not

The best writers
write.

Think about it.

Education is more than
credit hours.

The views expressed here are not necessarily those of BYU.

A letter to my daughter

Dear Brooklyn,

You told me a story tonight, but I wasn't really listening. Partly because I can't understand you when you speak. Mostly because my heart was breaking.

I saw your profile silhouette and got lost in the future. You were 15 and you no longer told me stories with so much enthusiasm anymore. You never even talked to me. You were too busy texting and being in your room and being too young and hip for me. I was too busy worrying about boys. I was too busy working. You were too old and embarrassed to go to work with me like you used to. We argued more than we cuddled. We gave each other the silent treatment instead of piggy back rides. We ate cereal in silence. I stopped scratching your back to help you fall asleep years ago.

All moons go through phases, I guess.

And even though you're still young and you still love me and we told each other great stories tonight, and even though I gave you a piggy back upstairs and we played the balloon game for 20 minutes and you ran upstairs and gave me a kiss right when I asked for it, and even though you're still only three and December's like a month away, and even though your mother and I are still very much in love and we don't just see each other on the weekends, and even though there are 365 days in every single year (sometimes even more) and I have summers off and there will always be another bedtime tomorrow, I know that time is running out.

I could take all the batteries out of all the clocks and it wouldn't change anything.

You still believe in Santa and I wish I did too,
so bad.


Sweet dreams,

I love you.
Dad.

notes about blogging

I'm sitting in the dark right now with 30 teenagers and it isn't even weird.

We're blogging. The blinds are closed, and in other rooms:
teachers are droning. Students are taking notes. Tests, attendance, talking, whispering, silence, noise, everything, nothing. Teachers are going through PowerPoints. Don't forget guys, there's a test next time. Students are sleeping. Hearts aren't beating.

But somewhere, right now, a girl is checking her phone, hoping.

And we're doing the same thing.

We're alive. More alive than we were at this time yesterday. It's 1:26 and we're not even thinking about 2:15.

Each song is the right song. It's the right song.

Even though we're all alone in our own worlds, hiding behind our own screens, we've never been more connected than we are right now.

There's a girl reading her own blog. Yes, her own blog. She reads the 12 comments and then re-reads her own writing as if she's seeing it for the first time. Her readers made her do that.

Someone just realized that they aren't alone.

Today's Halloween. We're all dressed up. But for just a minute, we forget the paint we're wearing, the wigs, and the eyelashes. Even the masks. Our costumes are metaphors for so much more.

And in the middle of the room, a tourist sits alone. (He'll never read this, so it's okay. He won't realize he's alone.)