It has taken a while to embrace the poet.
The desire having been born much later in life,
to write poetry,
to bring to life, with words,
what I see, feel, moments of sanguinity.
I have never doubted the words I have written
because they were written in truth, my truth.
But I did doubt the title.
What? These lines? Poetry?
There was too much significance behind the title.
Wordsworth, Shelley, Dickinson, Frost, Walt Whitman…
Oh my. The idea left me breathless.
What was I playing at?
But then, the answer was blindingly simple.
Take away the significance.
Aren’t poems moments of grace, of revelation?
Humming to a birdsong,
delighting at the sight of valleys and mountains,
closing our eyes in ecstasy at the sweetness of a fruit
or the texture of bark under our fingertips…
Aren’t these the poetic murmurings of one’s heart?
While some of us choose to put it all on paper,
others choose to carry it all within their hearts.
Well then, underneath the cloak of conventionality,
aren’t we all poetic?
Aren’t we all poets?