SilentWords.com

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Poetry Calendars, Original Poems, Prose, Rhymes, Custom Poetry Gifts

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I think it's fair to say that poets are a strange breed, their own "race" indeed. They're often tortured souls who don't write rhymes for a hobby, but rather give birth to them. Anyone who has gotten up in the middle of the night to put words down on paper, not knowing from where they came, will understand what I'm talking about. Writing prose with ink from the heart is very much akin to what giving birth used to be like ... you have no idea what the baby is going to be until after it is born.

I never thought of myself as a poet, but my father, the late E. E. Nichols, definitely was one. He used to write the most heart-wrenching tributes to my mother before they were married ... and after they were divorced. She saved every one of them. He could melt her heart with love poems, and also tear it to bits with sad ones. Though both of these wonderful people died years ago, I still have those poems in envelopes labeled in my mother's hand ... "From Papa". I understand why she kept them.

As a child I wrote sonnets and quatrains in school, experimenting with the sounds of words ringing in my head and rolling off my tongue. But they were only that. Words. It wasn't until one year after my father died that I experienced my first poetic "exorcism." I arose in the wee hours, headed for the old typewriter that seemed to be calling my name in the dark, and sat there hitting keys for hours as a four-page, single-spaced poem flowed through me and onto the paper. It wasn't Pulitzer material, but when it was finished, I felt a sense of relief. My dad was gone and I finally accepted it. I was 20 years old.