What learning to write poetry taught me

During high school I took an online creative writing class through my local community college. I enjoyed creating stories and thinking up new characters, but then came the poetry section, and I hate it. Before we had even started it, I hated it. I had such trouble with making things that sounded like poems, and even when the professor would say he enjoyed one, it still didn't feel like I was writing poetry. I loved creating stories, but poetry was just too open for me. But then there are some kinds of poems that strict you so much, like a Shakespeare Sonnet, giving you specific syllables for lines. I reluctantly created almost 15 poems, and here are some of those. (skip to the end if you want to hear what I learned from writing poetry)

Tear Drop Eyes

I heard the rain beating down on the old tin roof

I heard nothing else but my breath

Your picture on the nightstand brings raindrops to my eyes

Rising for the third week without you

Rising for the third week without a reason

Your perfume still lingering on your pillowcase

My body had been aching for years before

My body now aching deeper than before

Your touch the only thing to fix me

The sympathy was still coming

The sympathy gave me no comfort

Your glasses still next to my toothbrush

My pills, supposedly saving me

My pills, could now be my savior

My body finally joining yours

Freed by the trees

Already the leaves had begun to change

Bringing flames to the branches,

Creating a sea of rolling fire

Dancing with the breath of the wind.

Every cloud tried to quench the

Flames. That brought a

Greater intensity to the rage,

Increasing the number of flames

Jutting in and out of every

Knot of old oak trees.

Leaves began to fall then,

Mustering all the strength before clothing the

Naked ground, taking to it to

Occupy with flames. Leaving few

Patches left unharmed by the

Quickly overtaking rain of fire. The

Result was a crackling floor with each

Step. The flames that had so suddenly

Taken over began their

Unhappy demise. Being drowned out from a soft

Velvet, to a soggy pillow,

Wearing down from it’s bright beginnings, becoming a

Xerox without the

Zeal of what it wished to be.

Going back and reading the poems I created, I am impressed that I was able to create these. Being in graduate school, all my writing is very analytical and factual, I never do any creative writing any longer. It makes me long to be back in that place where I was being mentored in a creative modality.

Being a high school student, I went into the poetry section thinking I hated poetry and would be bad at writing it. The main lesson after exiting at the other side of the class was that you can’t really be bad at poetry. It’s an art form and art is subjective. People are critical of the greatest artists, so you should expect nothing less of your work. That being said, as long as you really inject yourself or the story you have created into your poetry, it is art. It may be less visual, or illicit less of an emotional response than the professionals, but you aren’t a professional.

When I was younger I was highly critical of myself (I still am quite critical, but I’d like to think I’ve improved) and the fear of being bad at something held me back from creating in new mediums. When I emerged from this creative writing class all those years ago, I had a new appreciation for the arts and was more ready to experiment creatively in ways I hadn’t before.

Long story short, you may not be interested in some general education, mundane courses, but they are there to teach you more than just the course subject.