I know deep in my head somewhere there is still a poem or two.
I went to grad school for poetry. I wrote some above-average poems while I was there. I thought once I got older and experienced more things, as Rilke advised, I would maybe write one or two great ones.
As it turns out, my life experiences seem to have buried the poems under layers of fat or callouses or drivel or reality tv shows or something.
I bought a copy of the Writer’s Market. Since I’ve been writing the book and enjoying the work. I think maybe I could write other things and maybe even get them published. It isn’t unheard of. When I was in grad school, I made myself feel like I had tried to become a published poet. I really only sent poems out about ten times. That’s not saying much. My proudest moment was when I received an actual hand-written rejection letter.
Spring makes the poems rise a little more to the surface. Almost to a place where I can hear them. I realize that the way poems used to come to me was usually from wandering around alone. Now? Now I never wander around alone. Pushing a stroller is not alone. No. Nope. Not even.
I guess I could wait and see if one comes.
Or I could dig in.