So, for a variety of reasons, I decided to take a poetry class. Poetry is one of those things that has always mystified me–it’s cryptic and obscure and part of me was certain this was a mistake.
Guess what? I’m kind of loving it. It’s not always easy. This week’s assignment was to write a sonnet. Fortunately, the only requirement we had to meet was the fourteen lines. The ten syllables per line and the rhyming scheme were optional.
I gave up on the rhyme early, but I wanted those ten syllables per line–and I was going to get it. So I sat in the lobby where Kyra takes dance and beat out syllables on my notebook. You know how some horses can “count” with their hooves? Yeah. It was kind of like that.
Since I was the only parent there at the time, I didn’t need to explain myself. Which is a good thing, since I probably would’ve responded with:
“I’m trying to write a %$#@-ing sonnet.”
The week before we wrote persona poems. This is a poem from the point of view of someone or
something else. So naturally, I wrote about Carl Faberge. My instructor didn’t respond–and didn’t respond. I figured I broke the class or at least his mind a little bit.
He was probably just having a busy week, because when he did respond, he called it remarkable and said:
You should check out some literary magazines you like and send it out.
As if it’s that easy. And I’m thinking: Here’s my secret talent. Finding the most unmarketable subject ever and rendering it in the least commercial form possible.
If “Two Hammers” (yeah, an inspired title, that) ever finds a home, you’ll be the first to know.