I’ve realized recently that I enjoy writing poems. Not necessarily Haiku, but I’m open.
Though I feel I’m a decent writer, something about poetry is daunting. I can’t imagine getting to a place where I’m confident enough, and accomplished enough as a writer, to call myself a poet.
I remember in college Literature, trying to make sense of the various obtuse poems that were presented to us, in class. Even then, there was this sort of inspired awe concerning poets and poetry. Though most of the time, I couldn’t figure out what they were trying to communicate to me…
I haven’t read all that much poetry. Not recently, anyway. Mary Oliver is my favorite, but I know there are many modern day poets that I have yet to be blown away by.
I’m especially nervous about writing ‘bad’ poetry, and being snickered at, because of it. Since most everything is frightening to me, I’m going to forge ahead and pretend that I know what I’m doing.
The right words are hard to find
To describe my state of mind
Shifting, and wandering
It follows well-worn paths
Fearing the light of change
It is stuck in the rut
That I’ve built up
throughout the decades