Poetry as Practice

I find myself returning again and again to reading and writing poetry.
Maybe it’s renewal. Or new beginnings. Or simply more daylight.

Come into this world
And stand among the pine trees
With grace and to shine

Where Writing Begins

I started my morning with a cup of coffee and a book of Mary Oliver poems, a gift from a friend. I want to bottle Oliver’s words and spray them all over me whenever I need an infusion of creativity—which is all the time. She writes about bees, flowers, otters, loons, herons. About paintings, saints, and strangers. Her words are small acts of reverence. Observations turned into tiny stories, each a match struck in the dark.

Poetry reminds me to pay attention.

My gaze drifts from the page. The sky lightens to blue-grey. A deer wanders into view, seeking shelter from the dawn. The neighborhood will soon rise and disrupt the stillness. I try not to hold my breath, but I feel it—that constriction of ego, fear, doubt. The tail flicks. I exhale.

And there it is: the softening. The warming. The breath.

Daffodils ascend
Time now to settle the ball
This is the practice.

Poetry is a kind of stretching for the spirit. A warm-up. A preparation for the next act of writing—or for life. Especially short forms like haiku invite presence and rhythm. They draw us out of the mind and into the world.

What Opens After

After I write a haiku, I feel open, energized, and more aware. Like I’ve cleaned a window I didn’t realize was fogged over. Suddenly, ideas come faster. Sentences feel lighter. I trust my intuition more.

The morning was full
of sunlight, hope, and wonder
The cardinal flew

Poetry is both art and ritual. Like yoga or meditation or tennis, it grounds me in the moment while opening space for something larger. And it’s hard, yes. Sometimes painfully so. But the effort—the practice—is part of its gift.

Great poetry doesn’t need to explain itself. It lives in the spaces between the words. And when it lands, it lingers.

A line by Mary Oliver, from Franz Marc’s Blue Horses:

“Maybe the desire to make something beautiful is the piece of God that is inside each of us.”

That’s how poetry feels to me—a quiet attempt to reach that something beautiful.

Floating thoughts like clouds
Retreat into the shadows
Shattered by the sun

An Invitation

If you’re writing, or trying to write, I invite you to start your day with a poem. Read one. Write one. Even just a line. Let it loosen something in you. Let it lead you, gently, toward the next thing.

Fleeting beauty perched
But for a quiet moment
Awakening truth.

I’ve returned to poetry in different ways over the years—sometimes quietly, sometimes when I needed it most. You can read an earlier reflection here or explore more of my poems on my Poetry page.