I began a poetry class on Monday, and I’m struggling. It’s a required course for my degree program, so withdrawing is not an option. I’ve never been a fan of reading poetry, and I’ve only recently begun to experiment with writing it.
This weeks assignment is imagery. I’ve read three chapters on the topic, read a poem with excellent examples of the week’s lesson, but continue to sit here staring at my screen, unable to write a poem about an Alaskan Winter.
Poetry is heartfelt and should come for a place of emotion. It should express the feelings, thoughts and emotions of the writer. Today I must find some of those things inside of me in order to write. I’m staring at the snow outside my window and I see nothing I want to share. It’s ugly today. Gray. The unseasonably warm and dry winter has not provided the normal beauty of the season.
I didn’t wake up feeling gloomy, but as I have concentrated on trying to feel the day, I’ve begun to feel sad. Poets must feel their words and today I feel mine.