I've been reading poetry this week.

Funny thing is, if someone else said the above to me, I would roll my eyes and groan inwardly.

I used to write poetry. I loved spending hours choosing the perfect words, the perfect thoughts. I loved its brevity. I loved reading it aloud. I loved being able to use it as a vehicle to make people laugh, cry, see or smell...

Funny thing is, if someone told me that they spent their spare time writing poetry, I'd rank them on my own subconscious hierarchy next to the vegetarians, picketers outside government buildings, people who leave religious leaflets as a tip for their waitresses, and those guys who only wear black clothing, hang out in grungy coffee shops, don't wash their hair, and feel the need to spew their ideals to anyone who will listen, often quoting Nietzsche. In short, I'd think they're a little weird.

I used to love my writing classes in college. I loved it when our published instructors would read from their own material at the end of the semester. I loved when they brought in photocopies of their own favorite pieces from other writers to share. I loved workshopping, sharing our work in groups and critiquing, helping, pushing for something better. I don't remember many of my classmates' names, but I still remember lines from their work. Much of it was crap, but there were a few jewels in every class. I still have much of my own stored away somewhere...I haven't read it in years, because I used to think it was good, and because I'm afraid of what I'll think of it now...

Funny thing is that most poets who think that some of their work might be "good" actually write crap. So I don't want to reread it, I'd rather just let it go.

I liked poetry because, well, fiction requires so much more commitment... But I read so many of these writers' journals on this site, and I'm impressed and...yes...proud of these strangers who are doing what they love. I love reading about their accomplishments and tenacity...

And the more I read about their lives the more I wish I had that group of writers to "workshop" with again. I think those people knew more about me than many of my closest friends. I want to write again about those durn squirrel hunters from southern Ohio, my best friend's baby's tiny, rubbery toes, the feeling I have when I walk into my darkened house and still smell someone who's long gone...all sweat and smoke and Irish Spring...

So...if any of you wonderful Journalscape creative-types happen to read this (if you're really that bored)...I'll not share my work...but I'll leave you with the Girl-I-Used-To-Be's favorite poem from the time when I wanted to do what you are so bravely doing.

"I Love You Sweatheart"
--Thomas Lux

A man risked his life to write the words.
A man hung upside down (an idiot friend
holding his legs?) with spray paint
to write the words on a girder fifty feet above
a highway. And his beloved,
the next morning driving to work. . .?
His words are not (meant to be) so unique.
Does she recognize his handwriting?
Did he hint to her at her doorstep the night before
of "something special, darling, tomorrow"?
And did he call her at work
expecting her to faint with delight
at his celebration of her, his passion, his risk?
She will know I love her now,
the world will know my love for her!
A man risked his life to write the words.
Love is like this at the bone, we hope, love
is like this, Sweatheart, all sore and dumb
and dangerous, ignited, blessed -- always,
regardless, no exceptions,
always in blazing matters like these: blessed.