Poetry

It's National Poetry Month. As a writer, my first form was the poem. I started at age eleven, scribbling screeds on the vagaries of life behind a locked bedroom door. I began clumsily, in self-absorbed fashion, unschooled in the art of poetry, apart from Robert Frost's "Stopping By Woods on A Snowy Evening" or Joyce Kilmer's "Trees." Hardly a Dylan Thomas or Rimbaud, my early efforts are laughably embarrassing when I look at them now. My youngest son composed better stuff at the same age. But the act of writing itself, expounding on themes, revealing myself on the page, was liberating. It primed the pump for stories and essays which followed.

Love of poetry, the reading or reciting of poems, is in short supply these days. Aside from some independent bookstore events or guest authors appearing at universities, it's rare that such lyrical magic is given voice. Thank goodness for Garrison Keillor's The Writer's Almanac on National Public Radio, which features a daily poem, and the popularity of the contemporary, "accessible" former U. S. poet laureate Billy Collins, whose books actually sell. There's the relatively new venue for sounding stanzas, poetry slams. For the uninitiated, a slam is a way of performing a poem in a more exaggerated fashion than a typical coffeehouse reading. People gyrate, scream and often cause something of a commotion in the process of airing their verses.

But ask the average reader what he/she is poring over these days and chances are you'll never hear "poetry" in response. Unless you're at a writers workshop, seminar or conference. Even then the answer will most likely be fiction. So I invite my readers to take their next free moment and pen one for the fun of it. Or the ache, agitation, joy, ecstasy, injustice, grief or grievance. You're bound to come up with something memorable to you, if not to your spouse, children or best friend. The pen is not only mightier than the sword, it is the Jedi Force, Frodo's ring and Alice's looking-glass all rolled into one. Go to a notebook, journal or poetry blog and leave your mark. No matter how trite it seems, how insignificant the subject matter, you'll feel better afterwards. And chances are no one will ever read it but you.

Going Gray

The latest trend from the runway and bohemian sets? Gray highlights for twenty-somethings and even teens. That's right, instead of streaks of fire engine red or chartreuse, gray and Andy Warhol white are in vogue. Some New York models are sporting the look, while teenagers and other trendsetters experiment with looking like Cruella Deville or Gloria Steinem. Meanwhile, the rest of us pay a small fortune to keep restoring our original shade or, the most popular tint of all time, blonde.

This fashion statement is not for the timid; you have to be out there to pull it off and wear it with authority, especially if you're in high school. Many girls I knew at that age ironed their hair. Or rolled it up in orange juice cans and actually slept on them. My sister and I went through a phase of creating our own version of dreadlocks. Using wet hair, we anchored miniature braids with tiny rubber bands all over our heads, then waited a whole day for them to dry and set. Once undone, viola: perfect frizzy manes with lots of body. A sort of Afro for white girls.

I remember my first perm. Unable to afford an upscale, hip salon, I went to a local beauty parlor and came out with a little old lady permanent. The end result looked as if death-grip pincurls had been fastened, then welded to my scalp. It took a week for the screaming strands to settle down. I looked like a cross between Shirley Temple and Annette Funicello. The chemicals smelled as powerful as anything an embalmer might use. Visions of old Toni home perm commercials danced in my doused brain. I didn't even color my hair until I was 30, when an artistic director insisted my stage character should be a redhead.

Once I reached the age when vanity trumps good judgment, I began dyeing on a semi-regular basis. When I come home with a new shade, the lingering stench makes me wish I could apply leeches to my head to suck the nasty peroxide out of it. Suffice it to say, if anyone had approached me at twenty-three, peddling a method of turning me into Susan Sontag, I would have respectfully declined. For now, I'd love to have Jamie Lee Curtis' gig: getting paid to be the pleasant, pale-streaked matron slurping Activa.