I was introduced to poetry in elementary school and have dipped into and out of, if not verse, condensed creative word use, ever since. But when I think of the word "poet" only two things come to mind. One is Black Bart, the stagecoach robber after whom a lot of touristy businesses have been named up and down the West Coast of the U.S., including near where I grew up. He would leave notes behind at the scene of his various crimes that rhymed "riches" with "fine-haired sons of bitches," or some such, and sign them, "Black Bart, PO8." I do love that spelling.
The other image makes no sense to me; perhaps it came from a cartoon I saw as a child. I picture a man sitting on a large rock, holding a quill pen. That's my sense of what a poet is, really. Someone with a very sore ass, stopping to think for a moment and capture it in words. I have a few regrets about the amount of time I've spent having slipped into that pause that failed to produce anything tangible to show for it, but...it's a sweet spot to be sure, when you catch it and gently trap it with your pen.
Celebrate the word this month. Taste it. Capture your own. Collect all four! Or five, if you count umami.