I never decided to be a poet.
I’d scribble notes to myself on the margins of class notes, sketchbooks, on the backs of assignments, not really conscious of what I was doing. Later I’d discover them and find them interesting. So I’d cut them out and paste them on a sheet of paper or copy them into a notebook.
It was like someone I didn’t know lived inside me and was writing messages to me. I kept them to myself until my music teacher invited me to participate in a small writing group. Not knowing what to present at our first meeting , I showed him some of the cobbled together pages. “You’re a poet!” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”