I’ve been thinking about poetry a lot, lately.
The main character of my second novel and current work-in-progress is a shy twelve year-old poet. I was once a shy twelve year-old poet, myself. It is a few decades later and I am a shy poet still.
When I was nine, my mother bought me a little green diary and I vowed to write a poem a day, all year long. I still smile in memory of What Did You See in the Fog Tonight? And laughingly cringe thinking of Shampoo a Kangaroo in the Zoo. For me, poetry was a way to express my inside voice. The voice I was often too shy to let out into the world. The one that liked to play with words and make them curl or hang or just sit still.
More recently, poetry was a way I explained myself to a new…
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