It’s funny that, with two haiku books floating around bookstores and libraries, and one novel in verse set to release in fall 2014, I still have a hard time thinking of myself as a poet. I hear people talk about poets and poetry and I never really attach myself to the things they say. I’m not a poet, I scoff. I just write how I feel. And then they scoff right back at me and say that’s why you’re a poet, dummy, and so maybe they’re right.
Am I a poet?
What does that mean, exactly?
Do I wear a black beret and talk about Sylvia Plath over baguettes and espresso? Do I quote Rime of the Ancient Mariner while I put my kids to sleep? Have I been known to recite the prologue to Canterbury Tales while I drive in epic traffic?
Well, yes to all of those things except for the beret. But I don’t know if this makes me a poet more than just a dork.
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