Thinking: a Fantasy Poem I Wrote at Age 11
Plus my childhood artwork, in honor of my BIRTHDAY
Happy first day of summer!
And, in a few more days (the 25th), happy birthday to me! Yes, I am a summer solstice baby. Astrological “crab” sun signs unite!
Therefore…
As promised some time ago, here is a second piece of my juvenilia, written in 2001.
Before we get to the poem, though, can we talk for a minute about the accompanying illustration?
I remember calling it to mind immediately when, as a college student, I saw a low-res digital copy of my first Rob Gonsalves surrealist painting online. It was this one (honestly, probably this same image file):
It struck me because the concepts are just so similar (as you’ll see below). The everyday surroundings morphing seamlessly into a fantastical dreamscape.
I just remember, when I saw this artwork, feeling immensely, breathtakingly seen. Like this person perceived the world exactly the way I did in some fundamental way.
(Note: Rob Gonsalves unfortunately passed away from suicide in 2017. If someone from his family, or otherwise connected to him, ever stumbles across this post, I need them to know that I cried for a solid week when I found out. Yes, me, a random, weird stranger in my mid-twenties, while filling out job applications post graduate school from my brother’s spare room.)
What I hadn’t remembered until I dug my own picture back out, though, is how dated certain elements are. Or how socioeconomically revealing. The perpetually-five-years-behind-the-times fashion. The horrible ‘70s wall paneling in our shitty rental houses. The this-was-clearly-bought-at-a-garage-sale-for-pennies furniture. And so forth.
Looking back on this with an adult’s eyes, I’m kind of touched that this little girl saw so much magic infused under the skin of her everyday life.
I hope I’ve done right by her.
And I hope you enjoy her poem.
Thinking
by Rachael Raine Rivers (at age 11)
As I am rather bored And can’t think of a thing to do, I think I’ll sit and watch My dog chew up a shoe. Or maybe, perhaps I’ll find A brand new way to travel To magic land of starry sea, By road of silver gravel. Where fairies do not fly, but dance On shining, satin toe. They bow, they leap and twirl, Oh my, how glorious is their show! Where I may take a moonlit walk In meadows, misty grey, And watch in awe the beauty of The coming of the day. ‘Til I return on yellow cloud Beside the rising sun. And think to myself that make-believe Is the greatest source of fun.
Liked the poem? Consider buying my cute 11-year-old self a MUCH belated a birthday card…
And/or, check out my other juvenilia!
The Fairy Dance
This poem was written by a 11-year-old girl. The 11-year-old girl in this case was me. Child me was certainly no Hilda Conkling. But she did take the time to illustrate her poem (see below) with markers in the Draw-Write-Now series style.
What a delight to read. I especially liked your commentary and art selection to support the poem. Bravo!
Awww. This is so cute, and what an introspective look at your child self. I love that young Rachael saw magic in the world. I feel like the Rachael of now is still finding magic.