Poetry Presenter

The reflection in the still pond was red gold, like the sunset. Finally, the blizzards were over, and the world had become "puddle wonderful," as the poet* wrote.
Poetry...Where did it begin, and how long had it been since I'd picked some up to read? It had inspired me as a teen every night...to read, then, to write. I studied the different meters in my English class under my favorite teacher from the University next door.
But it really hadn't begun there. It had begun in the northern part of the state in a fifth grade I wasn't very interested in, under a teacher I didn't like particularly. But still, this teacher brought in a speaker from the area, Eugene Field's daughter. She was really old, (or so I thought then) but when she read some of her father's poetry,

"Little Boy Blue"

in a melodic, poetic delivery,

"Winken,Blinken,and Nod"

and what each one of those names meant; I was captivated.
It didn't stop there. In sixth grade,

"Old Quinn Querebus, he loved his garden so...He wouldn't eat his growing things, he only let them grow."*

I had a teacher I really liked with a split room, so I buckled down to work. And there was that beautiful, colorful language, ending, "I wash my hands in red gold of pools..."* I was hooked on poetry for life.

*e.e. cummings *authors unknown