What comes to mind when you see this word?: Poetry.
Do you think of a rhyming scheme where the end of each line rhymes with the end of the proceeding line, or every other line? Do you think of simple nursery rhymes you’ve kept with you over the years? Or do you not think of rhyme at all? Is poetry just some weird way of communicating strange and cryptic thoughts? Is it what songwriters do? And obscure men and women from ages past? Is Bob Dylan a modern day poet? Emily Dickinson felt that isolating herself from the outside world would give her poetry much more significance. Did she succeed?
I could go on and on about the many differing aspects of poetry. My answer to all of the above questions is yes. Poetry is all of that, and more. However, I don’t feel at all qualified to direct an in-depth discussion of form or function. But that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate its importance as a means of communication.
I hate to admit it but I don’t own any poetry books. As a matter of fact, I rarely even read poetry. Once in a while I’ll come across one of Dickinson’s or Whitman‘s that I find particularly moving, but I couldn’t tell you the name of the poem, nor when or where I read it.
I’ve written many poems over the years but I don’t think of myself as a poet. I think of myself as a writer who sometimes writes poetry. One of these sometimes has occurred recently. Mrs. Elizabeth Tenerelli and I have teamed up to produce a picture book (aka flipbook) of a few of my poems inspired by a few of her photographs. Due out sometime in early March, just in time for spring, I hope it’ll be something that might make folks think about starting a flower bed, writing a poem, or taking a picture. Or maybe it’ll make you think about nothing in particular, and that’s fine. Poetry is different and the same to everyone who reads it.
A thick cold blanket
that covers all things.
Against warm skin
it shatters hot thoughts.
This fragile soul
lest it be exposed