Poetry {not a poem}

My favorite place in my college library is the third floor. It's a quiet space, so I can sit in one of the empty window desks and just work for a long time. Some of the desks belong to people who've added decorations and little notes for others who sit there while they're away. Some of the notes are graffiti. I like the desk at the end the best because I don't feel like I'm disturbing anyone there. I've watched the clouds turn colors through that window a few times. When I'm having a rough day, the sunset is the sky telling me it's going to be okay. 

I also like the third floor because it's full of old books. I read the titles and run my fingers over the spines, the faded colors and shiny letters. One day I'm going to open the books instead of just walking past, to see if I like the insides as much.

The library was giving away old books today. I wanted a lot of them because they were colorful and pretty, but I ended up taking only a rough-looking book of Robert Frost poems. I picked it up because, even though my creative writing class is finished with our poetry unit now, I'm still stuck on the idea of finding poems to bring in and share. I didn't read much poetry until about a month ago, but now I think I've fallen in love. 

I've written some poems I'm proud of in the past few weeks. I might share them here when I feel comfortable.

I want to thank my professor for creating the class she did. She made creative writing my favorite class, which didn't surprise me. She made all of us feel welcome and listened to. I felt comfortable sharing in class discussions. I adored the way she taught poetry. Our discussions brought out a lot of personal stories from everyone in the class, and she called the little details we related to "universal specifics." She told us to always use detail in our poems, no matter how personal. Someone will read your poem and feel seen by your words. 

We read about the spoon that a lost friend brought home from a potluck, and the purse-clasp snap that made someone think of her mother. I wrote about clothes that shrank in the wash and the bracelet I gave my best friend when I was fifteen. 

We read "Getting Close" by Victoria Redel in class a few weeks ago. Our professor talked about how, when you reach the age that your parents passed, you keep wondering when it's going to happen to you, if you're getting close now too. I wish I could rewind and listen to exactly what she said again. It would feel like perfect poetry now. The last thing we talked about was loss, like we had kind of closed things off neatly before she left us. But it isn't neat, because loss never is. 

She was a well-known and beautiful poet, a wonderful professor, and such a kind person. I loved the way she spoke. I'm grateful that she was able to teach poetry in the few weeks that I knew her. 

The class is moving forward with a new professor. We're studying fiction now. 

wishing you the best of luck ❤

This post is a little bit about poetry and libraries. It's also about new things and old things and loss. Change. The pencil notes of encouragement on the library desks aren't enough to keep me going, but I'll still say my silent thanks to the writers, feeling heard by someone I have never known.

Here are some poems that I've loved recently:

• "Aria" by Jenny Johnson
• "what to expect when you are expecting nothing" by Courtney Marie