Poetry Thursday: Why I Love Poetry (but cannot follow directions)

Why I Love Poetry (but cannot follow directions--this is more than 153 words)

Poetry is a voice, sometimes husky, sometimes operatic, always pure. It is the shadow next to you in the dim high school hallway, where you sit, hunch-legged, waiting for trigonometry class to start but longing to be outside, where sunlight spills like orange juice.

Poetry is snot, naughty children, and small dogs. It is a primer, full of bumbling and fierce and meek and graceful lessons. Poetry is the spoon digging into thick, homemade soup in the faculty lounge; it is admitting that first grade Brittany is eating peanut butter and jelly in the cafeteria next door, and that she probably won't be eating again until the peanut butter and jelly of tomorrow. It is tiny Megan wearing high heeled slippers and eye liner, along with a jacket donated from Goodwill, to her date with kindergarten. It is the frown-line teacher who must worry more about test scores and rubrics and rosters than about construction paper beetle bugs and Duck Duck Goose.

And here it is, that rhythm of poetry that becomes a song--test scores and rubrics and rosters, test scores and rubrics, and rosters--the rhythm that presses into you, to remind you of everything that is awkward or beautiful or painful or strange.

Because ultimately, to me, poetry is the voice that clears its throat and speaks up, refusing to be discounted, even when the crowds around it are too busy talking to notice. It bides its time on paper or in songs, knowing that one day, someone will stop and listen.

________________________

To read why others love poetry, visit Poetry Thursday or click here.