Why do we write poetry?….nobody reads it!

Can someone tell me why we continue to write poetry?  Nobody seems to read it anymore. The section for poetry in the book stores practically has cobwebs hanging from the shelves.

And yet, we still write it.  I discovered that certain people, events, animals, scenes, emotions will command me to write (my style of) poetry when a story or play just won’t do.

[image error]One of my more lengthy pieces was about rain (the Rain Essays)….because I noticed how different species react to it.  Here’s a sample:

‘…The dog romps through the rain, in his perfect raincoat, oblivious to the wet. Blinking owlishly when a drop falls into his eye

Mysterious primates of the forest sit beneath the umbrella leaf staring forlornly out at the storm Forever patient as the skies rupture with a torrential deluge,                                                                       human-tender eyes reflect their disgust and sadness                                                                                   at the wet, messy coats they must wear

The equine turn their haunches to the storm to show their scorn for nature’s tantrum

Cats run for cover, then distainfully sit removing the wet rain from their person with a wet tongue

Wild fowl dance across the circle patterns of the pond’s face, beating their wings and singing        They frolic and dive celebrating the sublime circumstance of being wet

Man spends energy and money to keep himself dry and safe from the rain, darting from doorway to doorway, bearing designer umbrellas. What does he fear? He won’t melt if he gets soaked,              he won’t become ill or grow fins, and he just might get clean….’  (c)