Poetry Writing 101

There is another lesson from Hugo that I want to carry into my morning practice: good poems don’t simply arrive because we wait patiently for inspiration. We have to work. He argues that writing frequently keeps the poet ready for those seemingly lucky moments when a poem suddenly comes together. Even the difficult poem that never quite works may be preparing us to write the next one.

I love that idea. Nothing is wasted. The unfinished poem isn’t wasted. The awkward line isn’t wasted. The morning when I write three sentences and cross out two isn’t wasted. The poem that refuses to become what I wanted isn’t wasted. I showed up. And tomorrow morning, I will show up again.

Maybe This Is What a Poet Does

My first formal poetry class isn’t giving me permission to become a poet. It is helping me recognize something that was already happening. I write because words help me understand what I have experienced. I write because memories sometimes arrive as images instead of explanations. I write because there are stories that I can tell only through metaphor. I write because sometimes a piece of cloth knows something that I don’t know how to say. I write because the sunrise keeps coming.

Perhaps I don’t need to wait until I publish a poetry collection, receive an award, or have someone else introduce me as a poet. Perhaps becoming a poet begins much more quietly. Wake up. Look toward the morning sky. Notice the light. Give thanks. Pick up the pencil. Write. Tomorrow, do it again.

My online poetry class at the Loft Literary Center came into my life at exactly the right moment. It is teaching me craft, but it is also teaching me something larger: to take my own writing seriously enough to practice it. And somewhere between the sunrise and the page, I am learning to say the words without hesitation: I am a poet.