I Remember Poetry . . .

I remember poetry before there was poetry,

when poetry was just something I read

in a book, for a class, as an assignment - graded, of course -

or maybe I tried to write it, had to write it,

struggling to rhyme it, meter it, get it right,

getting the beats to fall, rhythmic, and the words to rhyme,

awkward sounds and awkward lines, signifying nothing;

but a – b – a – b – a – b came out like the teacher wanted,

in the sing-song iambic she decreed as well.

It wasn’t like the book’s, not at all,

but she liked it, gave me an A;

I had tried, done what she asked,

and we moved on to the next unit,

poetry slipping away to the next year

and another teacher, another assignment, another grade,

another attempt to rhyme and meter words

the way poetry was supposed to;

. . . poetry before there was poetry.