I fell in love with poetry at school. The English teacher would sometimes give us a handout at the end of class containing a short poem. Our task was to write something about it for homework. When I got home from school I would read the poem through, and panic would immediately set in because I really didn't have a clue. Like my daughter says when I read her poetry: Dad, it's just random words! But, with repeated reading, maybe with rests between, meaning would slowly reveal itself, and eventually I would understand the poem. Not fully, by any means, but enough to be able to write something intelligent about it. But as the year went on I realised that I loved the poem much more before I had unpacked it, before I had robbed it of mystery with my clever dissecting mind.