I don’t remember
when I first fell in love
with poetry.
Every grade had poetry;
every year we wrote
a poem.
Or two.
But there was never a moment
when poetry stood up and
announced itself to me.
Or two.
I do remember,
however, discovering
e. e. cummings—
for the first time
poetry seemed playful,
or that t(here was a
mystery)
to be discovered;
that language was
a puzzle
to be put together
and taken apart
to be put together.
Even now,
he and Donne remain
my favourite sonneteers.
Sonneticists? Sonneticians?
(O! no disrespect
to Shakespeare
intended)
Remember:
to fall in love with poetry
requires you to keep reading
poetry, to remember words,
ways to shape them—
to sow poems like seeds,
to perhaps hand them
to a loved one,
or a stranger.
