I am no poet. To call me one would be an insult to all poets.
But I can’t control how the story comes out – usually it’s a short story, often a novel, sometimes a screenplay, and very rarely a poem.
I have such admiration for poets. How they can convey so much with such economy of words. But I haven’t always liked poetry.
In college, I hated poetry – Ode on a Grecian Urn, The Rape of the Lock, etc. – I despised those weeks of classes. I especially hated writing papers about poems. Why write a poem if I need ten pages to explain it? Give me 900 pages of Dickens any day.
(I do admit, however, that I have always liked The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.)
But once I was in grad school, I listened live to the poetry of my classmates. It was there that I grew to appreciate modern poetry, about real life, about experiences and emotions I could understand at face value and didn’t need another person or Wikipedia page to explain it to me.
So I opened up to the idea of poetry. Stopped crossing my arms against it. And sometimes the muse speaks to me in poetry. Not often but just enough to remind me she’s there.
A few weeks ago, I looked back at a poem I wrote about ten years ago. Fiddled with a couple of lines and sent it off.
The editors of The Olentangy Review accepted that poem, “Heartbreak in Room 7,” just before deadline for their summer 2014 issue, which is now available online.
It’s weird to see my name under the poetry section of a literary magazine, but I am thrilled just the same!