I don’t like poetry. I don’t get poetry. I don’t like writing poetry. I don’t like teaching poetry.
I like poetry about as much as my husband likes going to art museums. I clearly remember a couple art museum visits with Keith. I was so embarrassed when he loudly said, “oh look that lady has rosacea,” about a painting others were admiring. Then there was the time he mocked Grandma Moses’ paintings at a gallery in Vermont. “Hey, your grandpa paints better than Grandma Moses.” Don’t even take Keith near the “pop art” room with random sculptures.
It is a good thing there isn’t a museum of poetry. I would end up rolling my eyes too much. I would probably sigh and say, “Huh, I don’t get that.” Maybe I would walk quickly through the halls full of poetic words and not give them a second glance. I would probably even make some wise crack about the poem.
Yet this slice of life challenge is a bit like a museum with its own wing of poetry. I wasn’t looking for it. I would just click on slices. Oh, a poem, I would think. Since I was already there, I figured I should at least read the poem. And guess what? I appreciated the poems. I got them. I enjoyed them.
Then I would write a slice, post it and people would comment with “nice poem” or “beautiful poetry.”
What, a poem. I wrote a poem?” I skeptically wondered.
I would pull back up my own slice and glance over it quickly. Yes, it was a poem. I wrote a poem. I actually wrote a couple of them. Me, who can’t stand poetry. Who has only started to read more poems because of this challenge. I actually wrote and understood my own poem.
I might just like poetry a bit more than I thought.
But I’m still not taking Keith to an art museum again!