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“When people asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I answered: ‘A poet.'”
Sandra Beasley remembers “The Poetry Lady” at the Best American Poetry blog:
“With a handful of others I walked down the halls of Haycock Elementary School to the classroom where, for the rest of the year, we would have a weekly poetry class. A round table nearly filled the tiny space. We sat down to wait in our orange plastic chairs.
A woman threw the door open, swiftly maneuvering her generous hips through the narrow gap between table and wall to claim a roomier corner. Her honey-blond hair was a wave that crested and flipped up at the ends; her eyelids glimmered teal; her perfume bloomed with gardenias. She wasn’t a teacher. She was a force of nature.
‘Hello!’ she said. ‘I am Rose MacMurray. A poet. We are here to write poetry!'”