I am losing myself in this unchartered world, profoundly impacted by the writing of newly found authors such as Lord Alfred Tennyson, Robert Pinsky, Anne Sexton, W.H. Auden, and John Berryman, while excited to discover more.
My attraction to this genre is surprising. I've never been one for poetry, finding it too obscure, archaic and ambiguous for my simple taste and analytical mind. I've not had the patience or motivation to read closely, dig deep for meaning, or make the extra effort to find and interpret ideas or supply connections. I've gravitated towards the vast material written in prose form: fiction, memoir, biography, non-fiction. And while I find prose easier to read and comprehend, it is far harder for me to write. Poems, at least right now, are an easier medium for me to portray a certain thought, feeling or emotion as evidenced by the three penned so far: A Mother's Love, Silence Is the Answer and Over and Over Again.
For example, I have tried to write about the horrible day that I found Josh, not necessarily as a blog post but just within my own journal. Where do I start? What do I say? How can I ever hope to convey what happened in that life-changing second? Simply put, I cannot. But when I was writing in my journal this morning, I started stringing words together that began describing that terrible morning. The resulting poem says it all:
by Sue Anderson
Why? I screamed,