I am making slow, steady progress with sorting through and parting with some books.

Now I have reached the poetry piles. For years I dabbled and struggled with reading and writing poetry. I fell in love with the sonnets of a dead poet, was inspired by an adventurous young man, and intrigued by the complexity of writing Haiku. That sh*t is hard to write.

Many years ago, a local poet and retired University Professor spoke at one of my writing group’s meetings.

What caught my attention during his presentation about poetry, writing poetry and wanting to write poetry was a loud, painful yell “Aaaaaaah!” about whether that was how you wanted your readers to see you, just blaring out words and angry tirades.

He mentioned a saying from way back in England: “Is it worth the coal?”.

From what I recollect, his explanation was that this question would be asked when there was need for a journey by train and if there weren’t enough passengers or cargo loads to justify the expense.

He equated that to writing and publishing poetry. It’s a little antiquated but I can agree in theory.

For a couple of years, I schmoozed with poetry groups. I read different kinds of poetry but just couldn’t appreciate most. Some were too personal or required a dictionary – or even worse – an encyclopedia by your side.  I just wasn’t the same as being raised by a Father who would recite the works of Robert Service while juiced up on rum and coke or beer.

I even made attempts of my own.  At least mine were mostly published electronically.  No coal was burned.  No trees were harmed.

Thanks for dropping by. You may just find some of my unwanted poetry books at a used book store one day.

T