The Bloganuary prompt the other day was on poetry. A poem or song that speaks to you.

I’m not going to do music today. Musical, I am not, and there’s no way for me to talk about the music I do like without either revealing my massive lack of cool, or to unzip my chest to reveal my still-beating heart. Or both, sadly.

Poetry, then. Isn’t it funny that poetry feels safer?

I like poetry though I rarely read it now. And yet and yet, I’ve just now been reading Billy Collins Aimless Love. My sister told me about his poems, she says Country House reminds her of me, and we laugh.

Maya Angelou is on my hold list from the library, and Amanda Gorman’s inauguration poem The Hill We Climb was beautiful and powerful.

And infinitely more uplifting than what is posted at Lora Ceel’s now long abandoned site.

In high school we read Shakespeare’s sonnets – Sonnet 29 still bumps around my memory, along with a selection of Robert Frost. Including Stopping by Woods (which he also used in a pinch for an inauguration) and The Road Not Taken.

I pause to recite to myself. Yes, the memory may falter in places, but still it comes back whole. I still know these.

They were thrust upon me, but now they are a part of me.

Which feels vaguely poetic of itself.