One of our assignments this week was to write a 10-18-line word poem based on one chosen by our teacher, Heather Sellers. I was given “pigs” in a folded up sheet of paper not to be opened until I sat down to pen the poem.
As I opened the carefully folded sheet of white paper yesterday morning at my desk—knowing that it had been specifically created for me—I sighed and was eager to get started.
Poetry has been a form deemed “for other people” since I never quite understood what was trying to be expressed. Heather defines poetry as “carefully observed truth, plainly spoken.” I get that!
While I’m no Emily Dickinson, here’s the pig poem I whipped up in 10 minutes and really like (because it doesn’t sound like a hair metal ballad which tends to be the norm when I’m told to write poetry):
Of Pigs
Pink and black.
Sometimes grey or even red.
Big sensitive snout. Expressive eyes.
Intelligent, emotional, territorial.
Wiry hair and curly tail.
Loves belly rubs.
Playful. Mud holes. Natural sunscreen.
Beds of hay, not concrete gestation crates.
Deserving of fresh air, family, and freedom.
Not bacon or ham.
Nor sausage.
Pigs.
A Chicago Tribune piece came out this week to shed light on the unacceptable treatment of these beings. Eyes wide open. I believe they are friends not food.
