There's something about spring that brings out the poet in me. I don't know what it is but if we could bottle it what an interesting planet this would be?
Long, long ago in a place not very far away I wrote poetry, reams and reams of it, on a daily basis. It sprang from my pen like a live thing. In fact at one time I thught of publishing my poems. I did do a little chap book to give to friends and family. Some friends! Some Family! Not one copy remains of that book today!!! For my excuse, we had a few sewer back ups that flooded our family room. There's something about wading around knee deep in fecal sludgewaters that kind of makes you toss everything floating in it into a trash bag (no literary critique inteneded).
I also had one poem published in a professional magazine. What a thrill! No money. I thrilled easily in those days.
I took a poetry class one summer while still at university. The professor was amazing. He made medieval poetry come alive and have meaning for us. He showed us how to find the passion, the flavor in the poetry. The class was filled with teachers and student teachers.
I especially remember one personal story he shared with us that summer. He was blind and listened to the sound of shoes worn by his students as they entered and left the classes. He talked about the thickness and sturdiness of shoes always being worn by those who were well grounded in life and the flimsy, fragile soles of the shoes worn by those with a more fragile soul (pun intended). He recalled for us a time when he sadly, had to help out in a case where a student had committed suicide. He said it struck him then, as he picked up the shoe worn by that student. The sole of her shoe was paper thin with only the thinnest of straps supporting the foot. As he told us this story he held his hand and looked down as if he were seeing the shoe there.
Now, thirty-um some years later, I haven't forgotten. I wear flip flops now because my feet are so painful I can't bear anything touching them. But I wear flip flops with a thin strap supporting my feet. At least, the sole of the floppies are thick.
I think of all the poems I've read or written, this line from Robert Frost's poem, Stopping by a woods on a snowy evening plays continually through my life ...
...and miles to go before I sleep
...and miles to go before I sleep.
Make this week a good one. Remember to tell someone you love, that you do. Before it is too late.