So I walk the Cuttledogs, return home, turn on the idiot-box, and am transformed.
By stroke of luck, it just so happens to be Maine’s 2012 Competition Finals of Poetry Out Loud. My goodness, what a wonderful thing.
When I write my piddling little verses, I hope that the best of them are, above all, fun to recite out loud. My favorite poems are those that I cannot read just once–I am compelled to repeat them, aloud, no matter how much it annoys the cats. Poetry–real poetry–is meant to be spoken, to be felt, both in the speaking and in the hearing.
A couple of years ago, a reader asked to read one of my verses for Poetry Out Loud (or some local variant). Maybe some year, I’ll hear one of my poor verses on a state or national stage. For now, I’ll be satisfied knowing that someone thought my verse was worthy of the effort.
After the jump, the finals:
Humbling. But these kids give me hope for our future. Or maybe just mine.