Brought to you by the girl who does the book meme and Heith.

1. What is your opinion of poetry? Do you love it, hate it, can't live without it, or wish all poets would be stranded on a desert isle?
I adore it. I majored in creative writing as an undergrad writing poetry, and did a creative thesis (booklength collection of poems) for my master's thesis. I have often said it's my true religion, and the reason I exist. Though for shame! I haven't written it much lately.


2. What is your favorite poem? Copy and paste it here in your answer (and yes, if your favorite poem happens to be a dirty limerick, so be it- share away).

My favorite? I don't know if I have one. I will have to go home and look. I'll edit later.


3. Do you have a favorite poet or a favorite collection of poetry? Along the same vein, is there a particular poet that you don't really care for? Why?

Wow. I have a ton of collections at home. From memory: Wayne Dodd, Stanley Plumly, Jane Miller, Donald Ravel, James Wright, James Dickey, Naomi Shihab Nye, Agha Shahid Ali, Galway Kinnell, Lucille Wright, Donald Hall, Jane Kenyon, Tess Gallagher, Gertrude Stein, of course-- I am missing so many.

I would say that I don't care for some stiff 19th century poets. Not a big fan of Tennyson.
4. Do you consider songs to be a form of poetry? Why or why not?

Some songs. Natalie Merchant is a poet. You know, I consider some photographs to be poetry. I wouldn't say that my definitions match everyone else's.
5. Do you write poetry? If so: 1) would you consider posting one of your poems with your answer so we may all read it; and 2) what inspires you to write your poetry?
Natch. This is the title poem from my Master's thesis. Truthfully, it's probably also my favorite.

Dust In Its Infinite Lightness

Dust, in its infinite lightness,
can double the weight of a mattress in ten years.

You stand at the foot of the bed. The sheet, a blue canopy,
hovers and rests for a moment on dust or air, inertia,
the energy of its own rise before it falls.

Physics tells you a feather will fall at the same speed as a brick,
but the sheet wafts down unevenly, rests and settles,
wrinkled on the bed for you to straighten.

You can think of these things, physics and weight,
ten years of accumulated dust,
the cleaning and the straightening and the crawling into bed,

or remember how the breeze lifts the curtain,
and the sun catches dust in a stream of light,
while you stand, arms raised, attached to the sheet

that billows out before you on the air.