As I do these postings, a new experience for me, I realize that in some sense I am writing poetry. Perhaps a poet often has an internal conversation with the present. Some of what I have written on my web site are still musings. Others have already become draftings. I feel the poem gathering itself. Poetry echoes its beginnings always. Rhythm, melody, emotion, narrative, all present in the songs of unknowable peoples of the long past. Embedded in our history, perhaps genetically coded. I used to say that I couldn’t write poetry. I said it even though it is a part of me. I said it during almost the entire time I was writing, writing, writing. I’ve realized over the years that my poetry does not meet the academic definition of poetry. It would probably never be seen as the fine art of poetry as defined in many MFA programs. (Masters of Fine Arts for anyone not familiar with the kind of degree.) I respect and appreciate and often love these poets. But their ways are not mine. I know that my own voice would be suppressed in order to fit that definition, that voice, from which many develop. And very beautifully. But I write of the ordinary, which is for me extraordinary.