As i walked to the front of the class to read my poem my heart skipped a beat and hands ran cold. No matter how many poems you write or how many times you have read them that excited nervousness never goes away. You are always a virgin when it comes to reciting your poems. I have classmates from different walks of life and a blonde teacher with loud clothing and crazy shoes. Home again. I read out loud with all eyes on Me all ears on my rhyme. Finishing to silence i explain myself and sit down. Never in a million years i thought that there could be a selfish feeling for reading a poem, for sharing your soul to a group, but there was. I write for many reasons. I share for love of verse, i do it here for mail.
Whenever one reads a poem in this class, the students tear up papers and write a response. A response, personal feedback, for words i put together with either pain or ease. Whether about life, death, love or something good, i recieved small notes, like treasure they opened my eyes.
The most revered in everyone opinion was by the instructor herself. The most insightful learned one there. She reminded me of a gypsy in many ways a true "polit" for her day.
We called it mail, but in our hearts we knew it was more valuable than life. It was to be kept forever, untouched, and in perfect condition. Some swore to be buried with it, some shall pass it down a generation. I swear to read them over and over until the ink fades away, so i can be a poet and read my life over. One crumpled piece of scrap treasure at a time.
