Poetry class.

Every Monday night since March 17 I've attended the poetry class, and I'm already sad about the conflict that will keep me from it next week.

It's a diverse group, that includes some experienced poets, some experienced writers who have not previously tried poetry, and one or two who seem new to both writing and poetry.

Everyone has something interesting to offer, and now, well into the class, we're comfortable enough with each other to bring very personal poems to class. Tonight one of the good poets, a woman in her 70's, said, "I never thought I would write a poem that referred to breasts and nursing."

But she did it. Very well, too.

The other amazing poem was a three-part, three-page elegy, called a choreography, for a daughter, born three months premature, who lived three days. I marveled that the poet could read it without tears - I could not have begun to get through it aloud. (I could barely offer a comment without feeling tearful.)

It was a brilliant piece. The poet, a former singer, writes operatic verse - I imagined this elegy, full of musical references, being sung to a huge audience that would have remained quiet to the very end, for fear of missing a single note.

Both these ladies are utterly humble when offered praise. It is hard to convince them they have knocked our collective socks off.