I tried my hand at free verse when I was a teenager, but to be perfectly honest, that was driven more by a idle fascination with magnetic poetry than anything else. So when I began to take this spiritual formation group that had me write each week, I was not prepared for the poetry that sprung out of my fingers onto the screen. My mother discovered that I was writing again—after trying to teach me to write for twelve years—and so she read what I wrote, but did not understand my poetry.
To be perfectly honest, sometimes I don’t understand it.
Over break, however, I went to an interment for a veteran from our church. I wrote a poem about the experience because that was the only way that I felt that I could respond to the moment, through poetry. Prose did not seem adequate.
Coming out of that, and because of that, I now feel more comfortable with the possibility that I could continue to write poetry. Like the rest of my writing, ask me a year ago and I would have thought that you would have been crazy for the suggestion. I suppose that really I was crazy, because I had allowed this part of me to lie so dormant.
I wonder what besides just the practice of continual writing has made me more of a writer. Was it the relationships I am in, the experiences I had the opportunity of engaging in, or just the base force of writing for class to release what has seemed at times to be a gushing river of words streaming out of me.