I’m a novelist. It’s what I do. I write novels. But I’ve found, on occasion, that I dip into the realm of poetry. The thing is, I don’t do it on purpose. I’m not a huge fan of poetry, to be honest. I just haven’t ever really gotten it. I’ve been thinking about this quite a lot recently, because last week we started a poetry unit in language arts, and we've been reading a lot of poetry in class.
I’ve been told, on numerous occasions, that I talk like a poet. That my words are flowery, and flow together well. “But I’m not a poet!” I protest. “I’m a novelist. You know. Big, long, not too flowery. Books.” And then they laugh, and tell me I’m a poet too.
I took a two-week long writing camp over the summer, and we did some poetry while in it. Several times, when we wrote poetry, I was told I was good at it. I was shocked. Me? Good at poetry? Please. I’m not a poet. Not at all.
I mean, how can you be a poet, if you don’t even like writing poetry? Let alone reading it?
Apparently, however, I am one. I was flicking through some of my old posts, today, and I noticed something. Several of them are poems. They start out in paragraphs, talking about my life. But then those paragraphs slip away, into stanzas, and flowery words, and altogether poem-ness.
And I had never realized this. I mean, I don’t do it on purpose. Several times, my mother has told me that my poems are lovely. “What poems?” I ask. She points to my blog, at my posts.
“These poems,” she says.
And I’ve looked. And simply not seen them.
But today, while I was looking through my blog, I finally figured it out.
I’m an accidental poet. I don’t love writing poetry when I have to. I slog through it, picking out the perfect words, and trying to figure out what should come next. In fact, I quite dislike it. But when I’m not paying attention? I can write poetry. And it doesn't sound forced.
So, somehow, I’ve become an accidental poet. When did that happen?
The Dandy Lioness