Poetry, Humor, and the Art it Inspired
How writing a poem with my daughter brought joy during a time of sorrow and became an art competition
My girls have always loved poetry. We used to read it to them every night before bed. They’re older now and their interests vary day-to-day, so forcing them to sit through a poetry reading every night just might get us dropped off at an assisted living home a few decades too early. Therefore, out of an abundance for caution, poetry is a thing that is sometimes around, and sometimes not— over the past week, it has been around.
We were listening to one of my favorite podcasts, The Failing Writers Podcast1, on the way to school one day last week, and their episode was inspired by the United Kingdom’s National Poetry Day2. Poets Laureate and Stanza Stones and random passers by reading their poetry ripened the air with rhyme and verse. Halloween was fresh on our minds, so the fragrance of gruesome peculiarities and the grotesque lingered in the air as well. And then there was Emory, number 4 and my youngest, sniffling away in the back seat, besieged by South Texas allergens and recent rain and cold fronts (in drought ladened Greater San Antone, any “front” that drops the temperature below 100 degrees is a cold front).
Before I realized what I was doing, I started to sing a lyric about poor noses to the tune of Habsoro’s My Buddy. Within moments, Isabella (number 3), picked up the tune and began adding lyrics. We quit singing and spent the next few minutes writing a poem, which we titled, “Pour Poor Noses.” It was dark, and fun, and running, and by the end of the day, it would kick off an art competition— by the end of the week, it would remind me of the power of poetry.
But for now— and your reading pleasure— let me present “Pour Poor Noses,” written by Isabella & Dad.
Pour noses, poor noses
Pour noses in a pot—
Cook em till they're hot
Poor noses, poor noses
You only need one chopstick to eat em
I think it was our conversation about poor noses which inspired me to sketch out a picture for her to accompany the poem. I’m no artist, but she is, and I’d hoped she would appreciate the effort. Then I thought about some of the folks I know who can actually draw and put out the call for “submissions” to Isabella’s Pour Poor Noses Art Competition.
The plan was to accept submissions (mine was disqualified due to an arguable conflict of interest), then have Isabella conduct a blind judgement and select the winner(s). It was only meant to be a fun little thing to do with her, but then the week went south.
Isabella loves— is obsessed with— axolotls. They’re an interesting amphibian, but delicate, and Axy, her golden axolotl which she loves, did not make it. I dropped her off at school on Friday then returned home to write. At some point in the day, her beloved pet died. I dreaded picking her up from art club that evening because I knew she’d be happy when I picked her up and my news would crush her— I was not wrong.
She considered herself its mother. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that Isabella already exhibits strong mothering skills, and she took Axy’s death to heart. There was real loss for her, and it was the first time I’d ever seen her truly mourn— or maybe not mourn, but certainly grieve.
Of course, all I could do was hug her and tell her that I loved her and remind her of the delicate balance each creature on this planet tries to maintain. I reminded her sometimes even the coolest, golden colored, skin breathing amphibious water-dog axolotls have their scale tipped towards darkness sooner than we’d like, and there’s nothing we can do about it. Everything has it’s time. At one point, she was crying, and her nose was running uncontrollably. I grabbed her a tissue, and she looked at me with glistening eyes and a red nose and said, “Pour poor noses.”
All I could do was smile and repeat her words. She was so pretty and strong, blushed and eye-sparkled, finding the will to express humor even while minding. And I was so proud of her.
I considered reaching out to the folks which already submitted art and letting them know that Isabella’s Pour Poor Noses Art Competition was canceled. I wasn’t sure if presenting her with art was the best way to navigate a child’s grief, but then I thought about her use of humor. It wasn’t the end of her grief— far from it— but the beginning of her holding onto joy. And so, in honor of Axy and my daughter’s indomitable spirit, the show would go on.
We’re talking about life, man… and everything within it.
Okay, that was a little heavy.
I know what you’re thinking… “Ummm? Are we talking about dead pets, poetry, children, or art?” We’re talking about life, man, and all of the above, and everything within it. Okay, that was a little heavy. We’re talking about the things that happen in every-day life, like a pet’s death, a child’s response to loss and grief, poetry and poetry-inspired art. We’re talking about healing hearts— from wounds new and old, seen and unseen, remembered and even some that we’ve forgotten we ever forgot. There I go again, sinking to the bottom of the ocean— heavy, indeed.
Most of all, we’re talking about the art people were gracious enough to create and submit to my Tween daughter, during a time they didn’t realize— couldn’t realize— was important for her. And boy did we receive some great entries from some cool people. On to the competition then…
You’ve seen my masterpiece (sorry folks, it’s not for sale), and we received more than I can show here. In the end, I printed off four or five pages of entries, with four submissions per page. For those who were able to participate, I can’t thank you enough. She got such a kick out of the whole experience. I asked Isabella to pick 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place works of art and an honorable mention, but she demanded two. “There’s just too many good ones, dad,” she said, and so there are two.
She is used to receiving critical feedback from her advanced art class, so I could see that she was taking her judge responsibilities seriously. After some time, she grabbed a pencil and began leafing through the pages and selecting those she felt represented the poem best. I present to you, Isabella’s selections.
Earning the prestigious 1st Place position, a whopping $0.00 in prize money, and the bulk of the bragging rights, please enjoy this untitled, anonymous submission.
When I asked her why she selected this as her #1, she said “…because of its realism.”
Coming in close and earning 2nd Place, $0.00 in prize money, and substantial bragging rights, is a piece titled, “Vagabond,” by artist and American patriot, Captain Trevor Perkins, USMC.
When I asked her why Capt Perkins’ piece was her second choice, she said “I like the detail. There are flames and steam which means he cooked ‘em ‘til they’re hot, and there’s only one chopstick. It’s a good one, dad.”
Ascending to the final position on the podium in 3rd Place, taking home the remaining $0.00 in prize money, and a measurable degree of bragging rights, is a piece which the artists clearly worked hard on. It is also untitled and from an anonymous competitor.
When I asked Isabella why she chose this one, she giggled and looked up at me like I was the least qualified art critic on the planet (she’s not wrong there) and said, “It’s the cutest thing ever, dad. Look at it. Look at [the purple cat]. It’s eating the noses off of one chopstick, and there’s steam too. And one’s a witch! It’s just so cute!” I can’t argue, but even if I could, she’s the judge.
And finally, Isabella’s honorable mentions. I should say now that she wanted to give more out, but I told her everyone can’t win. I was able to convince her that both honorable mentions should also get a small $0.00 cash prize, which she agreed.
First, we have a submission from
3. Now there was no rule about how many entries an artist could submit, so Scoot put in some work and flooded the pool with his efforts. He submitted two, but this is the one Isabella liked the most. As a bearded dad with a serious filter on my upper lip, I dig the mustache, so I like this one as well.
And, not that it matters, but my personal favorite took her second honorable mention.
I mean, come on! I want this little dude to enlist in the Marine Corps and end up a tattoo on someone’s back!
Well, that’s it. Poetry became something funny, and humor helped my daughter through a rough patch. Then poetry became art, and more laughs and fun were had— more camaraderie established.
Next time you’re riding around with your kids and something fun, or serious, pops into your heads, write a poem— maybe even host an art competition. You won’t regret it, and you may just end up with a design for a new tattoo.
Semper Fidelis!
p.s. Though the competition is over, should you find yourself with a runny nose and inspired, please feel free to comment and include your own napkin art to the conversation. Isabella really does love them, and the entire family gets to come together and smile.
The Failing Writers are great. They are worldwrites. They are three British voice actors. They are failing writers. From their website: A podcast for anyone who ever dreamed of being a writer... then went and put the kettle on. Join three success-starved wordwranglers as they stumble towards their shared ambition: to become proper writers. Cringe at their teenage poetry. Cheer as they compete in writing challenges. Gasp as they ask bestselling authors and BAFTA-winning writers all the questions no one else dares. Just be prepared for raw, undiluted failure.
Additional information about the UK’s National Poetry Day, including its history and record of annual themes can be found at The Poetry Society.
Another good piece. My favorite was the same as yours, but i respect Isabella's choice.
Thanks for the restack!