If we had to say what writing is, we would define it essentially as an act of courage. — Cynthia Ozick

My mother’s mother, Ida, stood about four foot eleven inches tall  and wore a size 3 and a  half shoe. The entire time that I knew her  (some 25 years) she wore variations of the classic  “little old lady”  shoe – chunky heeled, high vamp tie shoes that were  distinguished as  “Everyday” (plain white, navy or black leather)  and “Dressy” (black leather shoes with a velvet  vamp and decorative  little  holes). For many years, we drove from our house in Massapequa,  New York into New York City to the Dr. Scholl’s store on  34^th Street. Grandma would get her  foot measured professionally (did we think it had grown since last year?) and then view the  new  selections and pick out what she wanted. They had to be special  ordered, of course, so there was a return trip back to pick them up. All in all, this was a very expensive proposition for a very middle class working family. But hey, Grandma needed shoes, right?

Progress came when Dr. Scholl’s opened a store in the suburbs. Hempstead was still a haul, but not the teeth-shattering, anxiety provoking trip that going into Manhattan was for my family. One year, maybe 1963 or 1964, when Mom and I were on the “return trip” to pick up what Grandma had ordered, we stopped for a few minutes at a bookstore. I was about 14 years old, already an experienced angst-ridden young poet, and was scouring the shelves for something suitably shocking to get my mother to buy for me (these were the days of $1.00 a week allowances, so I couldn’t buy much for myself).

Anyway, Mom was getting impatient, standing in the front of the  store and waiting for me to come out of the stacks. Then I found  it: 100 Selected Poems,  by e.e. cummings. Originally published  in 1923, this was the first Evergreen Edition, from 1959, and it  bore a price tag of $1.75. I still have my copy, unglued cover and  all. I flipped through its pages and was very pleased with my  choice. Here was a book that, by its very publication, told me that  it was all right to break the rules. Lower case letters. Lines that  stretched across and up and down the page. No discernable  rhyme scheme. This would do nicely.

Of course, I had a passing acquaintance with cummings already, and had adopted his lower cases in some of my own poetry (as did most teen-aged girls at that time). But here (as was required in my household) was proof that this was legitimate. And that poetry itself could be lovely and nonsensical and horrifying — all in the same line.

I brought the book up to the cash register and my mother met me. She saw the little purple-covered book and rolled her eyes. But then something happened. The man behind the cash register looked at the book too, and then at me, and then back at the book. “You dig cummings, eh?” he said. My heart stopped. No one — not even my teachers, who knew I was an aspiring writer — had ever asked me what I “dug” before. I nodded feebly, trying to look as cool and grown-up as I possibly could, no mean feat for a chubby, introverted teenager whose idea of a good time was to actually get to listen to an entire side of the latest Peter, Paul and Mary album in peace. “Let’s see how much you know,” he went on. I was doomed. Then my mother got interested, clearly enjoying this.

He opened the book and began reading, “Buffalo Bill’s defunct . . .” and when he got to the line, “. . . and what I want to know is . . .” he stopped. Cold. And he looked at me. And my mother glared at me. And for a split second the world came to an end. And then, out of nowhere known to me, came these words from my mouth: “how do you like your blueeyed boy, Mister Death?” The clerk smiled and handed me the book. My mother was gobsmacked. I said thank you to the man and walked out the door, ahead of her, trembling, but trying to remain calm. I had been tested by a total stranger and passed. I knew something. I had all I could do not to cry as I made my way out into the sunshine.

Years later, I still ask myself where the hell that line came from. Sure, I had heard the poem before but I was not (and still am not) a memorizer. Somehow, that line of poetry stuck in my head, even at that early age. Even before I knew that I really would make my life among words. Even before I began to fill my rooms with books in earnest.

This is powerful stuff, poetry. So tell me: What poems do you remember? What lines still startle you? Keep you awake at night? Provide comfort in difficult situations? Make you smile? Beg to be shared? I’d love to know. Words are a kind of journey. Please take us with you.

Buon viaggio!

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