Because it explains life better than I could...

I am a huge lover of poetry, and have been ever since I was a child reading Shel Silverstein. Happily, I have acquired a more sophisticated taste than Silverstein over time, wonderful as he is. The first poet I was really into, and am still in love with, was William Shakespeare. I know, cliche. I love his poetry because it is incredibly techincal and basically explains life in words I have always had floating around in my mind but could never place them together to make sense. That is the main thing poetry does for me. I love the creative ways people can put words together to mean so much. When I read poetry, I can actually feel what the poet is trying to describe. This is more difficult to achieve with stories. Since I have grown up loving poetry so much, I have always been a poet. It started off with Shel Silverstein-esque poems as a kid and have progressed into a discouraging, yet satisfying battle between my emotions and my slightly above average vocabulary. I won't share any poems here, though I gladly post them on myspace. My friends aren't as hip to what is good poetry as any of you are, so I can risk it with them. I pretty much read whatever poetry I can get my hands on. Sometimes I find the most beautiful and heart-wrenching poems are those written by children who are just discovering that sometimes life just isn't fair. I was at Starbucks once, and they had a display of poems written by local grade shcoolers on the wall. I read them all and even cried after reading one written by a kid whose dog died. Anyway, I appreciate all kinds of poetry, and enjoy finding it in daily life. My favorite poet is Emily Dickinson. I own all of her published poems and could reread them every day of my life. She says so much in so few words. Mary Oliver is another favorite. So I'm a big fan/collecter/writer or poetry and it is pretty much what has inspired me to become a literature maajor! Here is a favorite poem written by Emily Dickinson:

"I died for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.

He questioned softly why I failed?
"For beauty" I replied.
"And I for truth- the two are one;
We brethren are," he said.

And so, as kinsmen met a night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names."

-Emily Dickinson