Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
I don’t remember his exact words. But he pursed his lips, looked dubious, and I read the answer as no.
I was feeling the pull of prose then, of writing a memoir, and so, I went with the energy, and abandoned my first love.
But I still love my first love.
And now, about 19 years after that meeting, I think, I love poetry. I love reading it, I love writing it.
So what if I do not become a great poet?
Most people are not great readers of poetry either.
I will still write poetry, ordinary poetry for ordinary people, to bless, comfort, cheer, and yes, perhaps, delight.