“Ughhh, poetry …” has historically been my response to poems in the wild. I devour books and have connected deeply with a handful of poets, but they remained low on the list of things I would consume if given a choice. I blame this on the way teachers seemed to teach them as punishment, along with every other subject I despised as a kid but am now excited by. Also, Beowulf and cheesy classroom posters overlayed with “The Road not Taken” (Frost can’t compete with the “hang in there” kitten).
But now, I’ve eaten my words and seem to be regurgitating them as poetry. Not by choice, and not because I feel I’m any good at it, but because I seem pulled to them against my will.
The world is noisy. My thoughts are few and fragmented but there are things stirring — sometimes dormant and other times, desperate to get out. Often in bursts and not often coherent, they seem to be best expressed through poetry (that, or cut out magazine letters).
This is the metaphorical attic I’ll be placing them in until I know what to do with them, if anything. For now, I’m just happy knowing they’re here.
