If I waited for perfection, I would never write a word.
-Margaret Atwood
I’ve heard that good writers are never truly satisfied with their work but simply know when it’s time to put it down. Sure, they might see the possibilities that tweaking a line here and there might offer, but they are able to step back and discern when a poem or story is polished and complete. This, I recently realized, is a skill I’m still honing.
My poem 528 Kenosha St. was published in the 13th edition of The Nemadji Review. It was crafted from a freewrite exercise in my Intro to Creative Writing course. The assignment was to tap into our childhood memories and wonder by describing the house we grew up in. Then, we were instructed to take that description and turn it into a poem. My instructor’s feedback on this assignment changed the trajectory of my academic focus. She was the first person to call me a poet and encouraged me to submit the final version to the school magazine.
I remember the day I received my two contributor copies in the mail—how I eagerly opened the magazine to my poem, my first poem since childhood to appear in print. The first poem to make me feel like a true poet. A published poet. Imagine my disappointment when, upon reading it, all I could see were its now glaringly obvious flaws. I immediately saw a need for different line breaks, more white space for the imagery to breathe, and a more formal structure (I have a penchant for tercets and quatrains).
The version below is how my poem “528 Kenosha St.” appears in my Onedrive. There are so many details I could include, so many memories I could relive. For now, though, this version feels polished and complete. When—if I may be delusional for a moment—my published poems are formed into a collection, this will be the version I include. Though let’s be real, when the time comes, I’ll probably still find flaws in it!
528 Kenosha St.
The house peeked out
from behind
a spattering
of pine. Decrepit
but alive, its white
exterior crackled
like a thousand
smiling eyes. Broken
concrete danced
past flowers
tenderly pruned,
and cheap lace
filtered sunlight
on the carpet,
tired and blue.
The bathtub sighed
beneath the bottles
and mildew
crowding its ledge,
and the kitchen’s
peel-and-stick tile
curled up
’round the oven’s legs.
The bank didn’t see
the memories etched
into its walls and
floors and heart.
When the passing
of childhood
left it hushed
and hollowed,
they fed it to the flames.
Reducing memories
to a slab of concrete,
all evidence of
my childhood erased.
Sara Anne Valentiuk 