Poetry Again

Last month, my dear friend Bluebird asked me to read some of my poetry on an evening celebrating national poetry month. I was glad that I could say I was just too sick to participate. That should have been a red flag for me. Then, my sweet friend scoured the web to find my poetry.

Last night, she asked me where I keep my poetry. And I told her the truth. I have no idea where the bulk of my poetry is. I knew I had kept folders in my computers over the years, and I knew I had several printed out. But I didn't know where any of it was. Why?

I'm afraid of it.

I'm ashamed of it.

This morning, I finally found a few of the poems I had printed out -- ten or twelve of them. Some of them feel unfinished. Some of them are self-indulgent. Some are just no good. But a few of them are good. And I wonder what would have happened if I had continued writing regularly.

Oh, I still occasionally sit down to write a poem--when nothing but a poem will do. But I have stifled my voice.  I wonder if that's why I can't breathe?

I see much of the world as poetry. It's my favorite thing to read, to revel in. So here is my promise to me. I will write poetry. Some of it bad, some of it self-indulgent, some of it good. And I will start a collection of my poems--one I can find when I'm looking for them. So this is the year of the poem for me.