Foreword: A Soft Place to Fall (Excerpt)
I don’t always do well with poetry. My own? The writing remains a mystery, yet unsolved. Other people’s? Some rhyme, some don’t, some try. Some march in lock step while others sashay all over the page, and anything measured in iambs is too uptown forme. And yet…?
I spent half my life—not my first years nor recent years but the rest—stumbling over poetry: A reflex, perhaps, such as ducking in a tunnel or always facing the door when you’re in an elevator. A futile pursuit, for sure, for a word lover like me, back-pedaling whenever a bit of poetry pops up, as harmless as one of those roly poly clowns babies love to bat around. In this middle stretch of my life, if I had been called upon to recite, the only lines of poetry I knew were snippets I learned in the fourth grade: they were in my face all day long. I loved them. Still do.
Our classroom had a cloak closet (no, I don’t go back far enough for cloaks but apparently the closet did) that extended across front of the room behind the teacher’s desk. At the sound of the morningbell four door monitors (changed weekly) lowered the four sliding doors, raised them before lunch, lowered them after lunch, and raised them again at the end of the day.These barriers stifled smells of galoshes and wet wool and lessened the scent of tuna fish sandwiches warming up. The odor of overripening bananas, however, oozed through the cracks undeterred.
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Aquillrelle is a site dedicated to every poet amongst us – encouraging the type of poetry which is a mix of talent, beauty and expression power. We do it by organizing poetry contests open to all, and biased by nothing but down to earth creativity.