Angelmadrid• Show poetry

My dabbling in verses was encouraged by an English professor. The challenge to excel in the language came from my Dad, without his knowing it. He taught me what he believed was a winning oratory, compared to my original piece, a poem (Break, Break, Break) my high school teacher assigned me to memorize. My teacher's certainty that it would clinch top prize notwithstanding, I found my entry "wanting" (it was too short and simple, my adolescent's point of view insisted). And preferred my Dad's (Mark Anthony's eulogy) choice to it. It would've been perfect were it not for a single mispronunciation (Saysar instead of Seezar) that, thanks to my Dad's regional accent, I mastered to an embarrassing conclusion. No matter. I owe my prose and poetry to that indelible learning experience. I took for granted the nuances of language then; I now analyze words with care (and Webster and Roget) before I use them. I may never be as great a writer as my Dad, but - hey - he can rest in peace I never stopped trying.