Most poets can point to a moment when they knew their writing life had begun. Call it intuition, a flash of certainty, or a sweet, warm recognition. Suddenly you just know that you are meant to – you must – spend your life writing poems.

For me, that moment came when I was in ninth grade, in Mrs. Sokolowski’s English class. I was painfully shy back then, and Mrs. Sokolowski was the most intimidating woman I had ever met. She only stood about five feet high, but she wore stark red lipstick, a Cleopatra haircut, and heels so high and pointy they could have been used as weapons. And yes, she had brutally high standards for her pupils.

Most of the writing I did for her was polite and well-mannered, unremarkable, really. I dutifully dissected the Shakespeare sonnets she assigned. I slogged through the great English poets, penning deadly-dull synopses and trying to sound oh-so-mature.

I didn’t fool either of us.

Poetry still seemed like meaningless ornamentation to me, the pointless pursuit of a bunch of stodgy, out-of-touch writers. I hadn’t yet discovered that poetry is a mirror, filled with so many different faces.

Then one day Mrs. Sokolowski abandoned her precise curriculum and instead showed our class a short film about a clay man. This little fellow lived quite happily in a cardboard box, until a giant hand reached in and threatened everything he knew.

The animation wasn’t very good – lousy, really – but for some reason I was moved by the story. The man’s fear and the fact that he couldn’t speak up for himself – being made of clay – touched me on a very deep level.

Most of the class groaned when Mrs. Sokolowski asked us to write an essay, or a more creative piece, about the film. But I couldn’t wait to get started. Suddenly I understood what all those great writers were doing with their poems. They were telling someone’s story as well, using sound and word pictures.

I began to write, and a voice that seemed so unlike my own filled my thoughts and paper. The invisible plug that had always kept me silent disappeared, if only for a moment.

When Mrs. Sokolowski handed back my work, it was covered with red ink. But up at the top there was a A+ and an encouraging note, which I can no longer recall.

Whatever she said, it only reinforced what I had learned about the power of poetry. This art form isn’t polite and well-mannered; it screams when it needs to, whispers when it wants. It’s the eternal story of how language liberates. Thank you, Mrs. Sokolowski.