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On Poetry

And now for something completely off topic!

I used to write poetry. I won’t go so far as to say it was GOOD poetry, but it was poetry nonetheless. It was not the kind of poetry that Eliot wrote, or Pound, or Frost. It was reactionary, angry, happy, sad poetry. Written in haste. Bitter, joyful, nostalgic. Not the sort of thing you’d ever find in an anthology of the greats. Maybe something that a braver person would read at an open mike night, It might garner a few bits of scattered applause. That’s it.

I don’t write poetry anymore. I haven’t in a long, long time. Maybe it was because I moved on, to concern myself with other things. Law school, internships, cooking and (occasionally) cleaning. Whatever the reason, my muse is gone. Sometimes a few shreds of verse come to me, but I don’t really want to write them down. I don’t want to write poetry anymore. I don’t want to stand up and read my poems out loud, or post them for the world to see, or even keep them hidden under the mattress where no one can find them. I don’t want to write poems. But I honestly miss my muse. What happened?

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