When is a poet not a poet?

When she doesn't claim the label. 

I wouldn't call myself a poet. 

Via Freeimages.com

I like poetry. 

I really like poetic prose. 

I like making my own prose as musical and fluid as I can (it tends to go well with the type of descriptive writing I enjoy). That said, I do dabble in poetry. (I think a lot of writers will dabble in areas that aren't their strengths, just for the sheer joy of creating and exploring.) 

Most of my poetry never sees the light of day. Save for the few pieces I published a couple of years back and the minute stuff that might show up in my fiction.

I've decided I should change that. Particularly in light of grad school continuing to drag on, which limits both my time and creativity. (I might have had the fourth and fifth parts of The Work written and posted by now were my attention not so split.)  

So, moving forward, I'm going to be sharing past pieces from the poetry notebook and new pieces that I come up with, barring any ongoing submission/publication attempts. Because, why not? At the moment, all of these pieces are just hibernating in my archives. If someone out there in blog-land can get something out of them, I'm all for that. 

To kick off the sharing, here's a fragment of a piece. I think it was originally supposed to be the start of a longer work, but....it never took shape. Such is writing.


A woman in a tenement cries

We’re living in blood and

Starving for grain

And the body of our lord and savior

Just ain’t enough to sustain