Poetic Ignorance – A retrospective of my first and only poem

The year was 1995. I was in grade 11 and primarily concerned with two things. One, weekly panic attacks instigated by the pressure of being the co-captain of the senior rugby team. And the second: boobs. Any kind of boobs. Small, big, round, conical, firm, soft – if a girl had them, I liked her…a lot. Such was the struggle of my 16-year-old life; trying to hold on to a prominent spot on the rugby team even though it was causing me early-onset heart disease and trying to get laid so my hormonal glands wouldn’t hemorrhage in class, spilling testosterone all over my shiny maroon Doc Martens. A pretty male high school experience, all in all. So you can imagine how I took to poetry.

At some point in the second semester, my grade 11 teacher made each student in his class write a poem to enter into competition. The prize was a bag of M&Ms. Naturally, I did not want to do it. A)

Rugby players didn’t write poetry. They shot-gunned beers and felt girls’ boobs in bushes behind Dave Williams’ parent’s house.

And B) Girls don’t let you feel their boobs in the bushes behind Dave Williams’ parent’s house when you are a poetry-writing candyass. 15 years later and I realize the absurdity of both these statements, but at the time this was gospel and truth. Hell, it was scientific fact. Write poetry. No pussy. Simple.

I was a decent English student. No one knew this because I was more ashamed of it than the fact that I masturbated. Nevertheless, I voraciously read Stephen King, and mountain climbing accounts, and adventure books and, of course, Penthouse (whenever the badass twins down the street could manage to steal one from the general store). I even did a little creative writing in the privacy of my own room. It mostly revolved around spies and ninjas – really progressive stuff in the 90s. Anyway, when the poetry contest was announced, I panicked. Unless I did something drastic, the teacher was going to read my poem in front of dozens of people, at least half of which were girls. Girls with boobs. What was I to do?

I did what I do best. Ignoring my deep-down desire to write an ode to Kurt Cobain, full of Nirvana-like lyrical stylings (I would wait till grade 12 creative writing class to do this), I would write an ode to an iconic Comox Valley legend that would make the girls laugh while still maintaining my half-ass, not-quite-a-tough-guy-but-a-big-guy-with-a-tough-guy-for-a-brother image. I would write a poem about beer.

Not just any beer, mind you. but Lucky Lager. Where I am from, Lucky Lager is the nectar of the gods. People get the logo tattooed on them. They paint the label on the hoods of their cars. And they drink it like New Jersey douchebags drink jagerbombs. It’s astounding how much Lucky Lager gets sold in my hometown. Labatts, the parent company for Lucky, once threw a massive party for the residents as a thank you for being the “Luckiest town in Canada.” Ridiculous, right? It seemed a safe bet to write a heartfelt poem to this popular brew.

The day came when the poems were to be read and, nervously, I waited for my teacher to read mine. One by one, the poems were read aloud to the class. They ranged from Nirvana-inspired tributes to thinly-veiled Nirvana rip-offs to long, clumsy love letters to Kurt Cobain. The variety was stunning. Finally, the teacher cleared his throat and read:

Oh, how I love to get Lucky by Mike Berard

Oh, how I love to get Lucky,
a case to be precise.
12 bottles of golden lager,
in a cooler full of ice.
I’d crack one open, suck it down
another and another, ’til I was spinning round and round
I’d sip it, slurp it, guzzle and chug,
until I lay upon the rug.
Suddenly I feel my stomach curl.
Oh no! Up comes a stream of hurl.
Spewing, spewing everywhere,
on my clothes and in my hair.
My last memories are of Constable Frank,
throwing my ass in the drunk tank.

Oh, how I love to get Lucky.

It was an instant hit. The guys cheered. The girls laughed. The boobs nodded their silent approval. It was a victory. Even the teacher laughed. The only ones who didn’t approve were the few art students who actually took the competition seriously. I thought they were idiots then, but years later, after much maturation, after realizing poetry is as valid an expression as music, film or good ‘ol “regular” writing, I now know who the real idiot was.

Constable Frank.

Oh, how I love to get Lucky. – Mike Berard