The death of a poem

A few weeks ago, someone posted a poem on one of the Runner's World Forums, and it reminded me that I had once written a sonnet about running. I was at my parents' house then, so I looked through some of the poems I'd given my mom and didn't find it. I didn't have much hope, either; this was a poem I'd written for my Structures of Poetry class at Clemson my sophomore year, and while I was proud of that particular poem, I didn't really enjoy the class. Still, I thought I must have put a copy in my big poetry notebook, which contains more than sixty poems, some complete with revisions, notes, and comments from others, simply because I don't often throw away my work. Monday evening, I was sad to discover the poem wasn't there, and I have been sad ever since. I worked harder on this one poem than I had on almost any other, and all my roommates at the time, especially Becky, had helped with choosing natural rhymes and checking the rhythm. Technically, it was a perfect sonnet. Emotionally, I had finally produced something that expressed in words what running does for my spirit. It sounds a little cliched, but it was honestly more than a poem about a hard run; it was a poem about my God and my way of connecting to Him. Rarely have I ever been so open, so exposed, in writing or in my life in general. I haven't gone through all my old notebooks yet, but at this point, there's really not much hope. I think I probably threw it away, not because I disliked it, but because it wasn't well understood. Now, I've finally found a group of people who would appreciate it, and I have nothing to give them.

What do you do when you realize you've lost something you never knew you would miss?

And on top of all these emotions about one poem, I am feeling the loss of my poetry in general. In high school, and at Governor's School in particular, I had so much to say. I could find poetry in everything. Looking through my notebook, I was thrown back to high school. These were days when I was unsure of myself, about to change schools, cringing from shoulder pain whenever I swam, slowly developing a passion for running, and still able to be amused by the odd crook in a tree or a strange couple in a museum.

Times have changed, and now I am supposed to focus solely on my research. Professors even tell me I shouldn't run too much. But I think we need balance in our lives. I think I need poetry in mine. I plan to start writing again. I doubt that I'll post any of it, but I wanted to announce it publicly for greater accountability. I could once write a decent poem about a tree that looked like a tutu-wearing linebacker or about the ridges that form on my hand when I write in a spiral notebook. I can write one now about materials by design and the strange phase diagrams they produce.