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There Is Poetry in Nature

I fancy myself a poet. Several years ago, I asked one of my daughters, "How does one become a poet?" And she replied in her succinct way, "She writes poetry." So, I determined to write a poem a day for a year.

Being as objective as I can, I would say 10% of my poems from that time are winners, and since then I have written a few others I am proud to put my name on. None have been published, despite my efforts, but I share them with friends and family on occasion.

There was a prolific 20th-century poet whose name escapes me who wrote every day of his life, recognizing that not every single one would be a gem, but you write. And you write. And you hone. And you write more. Over his life time, he amassed quite a few gems, the wheat of his labor, you might say, with the chaff left sitting in the drawer.

I do not put myself in his category (damn, I wish I could come up with his name!), and I don't yet have the discipline of writing every day apart from my Year of Poems experience, but I'm taking steps in the right direction.

So, to the point—I gathered my favorite poems and paired them with favorite paintings and printed them in a book to give as gifts. In another life, and sometimes still, I was/am a graphic designer, and I used those skills to create the page layout, and I had the thing printed by Book Baby. It's a self-publishing company where you can print one copy or thousands, depending on your marketing intentions. I printed 25.

I was so pleased with the results—the combination of poetry and paintings seeming so natural—that I printed another 25 copies for my Etsy shop. Who the heck would buy poems by an unknown poet? Well, that's a question poets have been asking for centuries. But regardless of the answer, you write. And you write. And you paint.

And you put your name to your work and offer it up with both hands to the great, wide world. And then you wait to see what happens.

HERE is the link to this new book, titled "There Is Poetry in Nature."

There is poetry in nature as clear

as sonnets blooming in the garden

where the fig and lemon trees bear fruit,

as limericks bobbing in the branches

where hatchlings summon their mothers

as elegies humming under leaf beds

while life dies out with the seasons.

The mountains call down about epics

of the earth's age,

while the moon glows an ode to the sun

that lights its barren surface on fire,

and the ocean strums ballads

in waves agains the cliff face.

There is poetry in nature as clear

as the rhymes and rhythms of four own days

and as humble or majestic as we take

to reciting them.

© 2020 Copyright Robyn Martins.

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