Poetry Outloud
First and foremostly, I’m a geek. No, seriously. You can tell because I’m the only one reading from my iPhone, and not a piece of paper or memory.
Secondly, I’m a writer, not a poet. So, forgive me, if I suck. I’m new, I’m learning, learning to appreciate.
In college, the way I felt about poetry was similar to way my boyfriend currently feels about my deep obsession with The New Yorker magazine.
“What is it saying?” he gripes. “It’s not news, honey,” I pleadingly interject, “It’s just commentary. About news. Sometimes.” He scoffs at this. “But where are the facts!?”
Since I struggle with this in poetry, I’m going to offer an explanation about my poem before I read it. I hope you don’t mind. It’s about how I imagined it would feel to have Alzheimer’s.
Finally, a disclaimer: I am a writer by day, and a poet only by nightmare. I wrote this one in the middle of the night, after a particularly bad dream, and was surprised to find it blinking at me, as I blinked back at the computer screen in the morning after.
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