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Where Dies Poetry Take Us


Often, I ask where poetry take us, and add that I never recognize the apparent and obvious milestones. Efforts to answer this question have failed over the years. Perhaps, the question should be; do I want an answer to this, or am I happy going along without it while writing what pleases me. There are times when wider and deeper words seem to be worth trying, but when I reach and grasp a few, most never taste just right. I am one destined for non-greatness, so the question for me is moot (there's a very good word), and this tells me to fret not, relax, and enjoy what is rewarding and, at times, near great writing for those who look to peek into the mind and matter of someone in love with composing special and honest imagines. In between such sieges I feel the glow of praise for my poetry by a few surprising persons. Recent compliments have come from 'a seldom to compliment' brother of mine, a woman who reads from one of my books before getting up in the morning, a longtime friend claiming that she had never read poetry that didn't rhyme before I gave her one of my books, an older sports jock confessing that he, 'reads the stuff,' and likes it, and a young school girl who smiled meeting a real live author and told me that I had a great imagination and wrote poems, 'real good.' Dear reader, I hope that all of this makes you feel somewhat more rewarded for writing yours.


F William Broome 2008