XII
The poetry of life?
No, the picture of my dreams 
Flashing on my heart.

From “Japanese Hokku” by Lewis Grandison Alexander

I started writing about one poem a day as a writing practice several months ago. (This came on the heals of years of daily blog posts focused on everything from to news, to mindfulness, to health and wellness, and much more.) The more I dive into poetry the more deeply I fall in love. What started as artistic curiosity and admiration, has grown in to the encouragement to be fearless and precise with all my words, the technical guidance to be a better writer, and a model to be a better human being — asking better questions, paying closer attention, and always acting from intention and love. Poetry is all that.

I am in awe of poets and their artistry. The stories they tell. The words they choose. The images they evoke. The marble they carve. The hearts they break open. The languages they speak. Sometimes, I never want to write again after reading a poet’s work. I become afraid to even aspire to write in the same universe or on the same planet as my favorite poets. (That feeling passes as I keep reading and keep writing, and I allow my connection to inspire, rather than intimidate.)

I often tell the story of when I took a poetry class in college. We read beautiful poetry. I wrote really bad poetry. The class opened my eyes to the unique gift that is poetry. As an English major, I had to read and write a lot. I generally did alright. (I was not the best in my classes, but not the worst either.) I loved language and words. I was also a theatre major. Poetry provided the same connection for me as hearing a beautiful script performed. Scripts were poetry in motion. This is all to say I come at my love of poetry from many directions — the classroom, the stage, books, my notebook/computer. (I could even include my pillow, too. As a child, I would go to sleep after reciting poems I had memorized in mantraesque fashion.)

I don’t write poetry. I am not sure I would have the courage to ever aspire to call myself a poet. I barely have the strength to call myself a writer. Something rings true when I say that my writing is my attempt to capture the picture of my dreams flashing on my heart. In that way, I am a poet.