i like poetry now

i used to say i didn't like poetry- "naw, i'm not into that". as a kid, i devoured all kinds of forms of the written word except for poetry- comics, cereal boxes, bazooka joe gum wrappers, parenting magazines in the dentist's office, epic notes from my friends roundly scrawled on 3-hole punched paper, then folded over + over again until the ends of the paper disappeared into itself, like a snake eating its tail. poetry to me was shel silverstein- sure, the man knows how to rhyme, but poems about peanut butter sandwiches + mythical creatures + hug-o-wars didn't exactly jibe with my childhood. when i got older, other poets were forced on me in school: frost, whitman, emerson- white men writing about nature + who knows what else b/c i didn't bother to find out. their thoughts seemed so disconnected from my reality that i assumed all poetry would be like fishing, or croquet- worlds inhabited by ppl who looked + felt nothing like me.


then i found langston hughes. i don't remember how, but "Mother to Son" (google it NOW if you don't know it) is what cracked the door open for me. i read "life for me ain't been no crystal stair" and the strings within me started to hum. that led me to maya, audre, alice- poet warriors with whom i could be on a first name basis.


most recently, i "met" Ishle Yi Park, a korean american woman born in the same year as me. here is an excerpt from "A Simple Bridge". thank me later.


A Simple Bridge


These days I feel out of touch with lightning,
fire, even the loneliness of wind.
My soul sings to itself
because it is alone.
And then, I think lightning,
fire, wind are all solitary forces:
they can't help but touch
things in their path. It is the reaching--
the space between the paper's edge,
the blue fingers of flame,
between the wind
and sharp, breathless leaves,
between the whiteblue jolt,
the one bare tree,
branches open to light
and burning--
it is a simultaneous distance
and longing my body recognizes.