A few winters ago, fresh off heartbreak upon heartbreak and feeling hollowed-out from it all, a friend of mine invited me to an Anti-Valentine’s Day poetry reading.

You had to bring sad poetry, angry poetry, heartbroken or triumphant poetry.

A lot of folks cheated a bit and brought the lyrics to favorite songs, but read as poems, they took on new life. I guess I cheated a bit, too.

I brought "Sorry," a monologue by Ntozake Shange that appears in "For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow is Enuf." And about halfway through reading it, I became it, or it became me. I wasn’t sorry for myself or sorry for the breakups anymore. I was still angry and hurt and sad and craving those things about a relationship she mentions - the close talk, the openness, loving someone on purpose. But that anger, that passion in her words made me realize the close talk and openness I had thought I had wasn’t real. It was my first big step in Getting Over It.

Sometimes I forget about the pure power of words. And when I do, it helps to look at some good poetry. A friend of mine e-mailed me this morning about hearing Harriet Tubman’s writing on "Poetry Off the Shelf" on NPR. She described one piece Tubman had written about coming back for her husband, John, after years of freedom and finding that he had remarried. At first, she was angry, but the line that struck my friend most was her resignation, "No use stoking a dead fire."

Of course, that brought to mind the anti-Valentine poetry - specifically "Sorry."  I still love this poem, still feel like I can see her straightening up and walking away when it’s over. She doesn’t follow traditional punctuation or capitalization or even spelling rules in it, but I think it adds to that anger, that disappointment that comes through, especially when you read it aloud.

It also made me an Oliver Lake fan.

But see if you feel the same way:

Sorry

one thing i dont need
is any more apologies
i got sorry greetin me at my front door
you can keep yrs
i dont know what to do wit em
the dont open doors
or bring the sun back
they dont make me happy
or get a mornin paper
didnt nobody stop usin my tears to wash cars
cuz a sorry

i am simply tired
of collectin
‘i didnt know
i was so important toyou’
i’m gonna haveta throw some away
i cant get to the clothes in my closet
for alla the sorries
i’m gonna tack a sign to my door
leave a message by the phone
‘if you called
to say yr sorry
call somebody
else
i dont use em anymore’
i let sorry / didnt meanta / & how cd i know abt that
take a walk down a dark & musty street in brooklyn
i’m gonna do exactly what i want to
& i wont be sorry for none of it
letta sorry soothe yr soul / i’m gonna soothe mine

you were always inconsistent
doin somethin & then bein sorry
beatin my heart to death
talkin bout you sorry

well
i will not call
i’m not goin to be nice
i will raise my voice
& scream & holler
& break things & race the engine
& tell all yr secrets bout yrself to yr face
& i will list in detail everyone of my wonderful lovers
& their ways
i will play oliver lake
loud
& i wont be sorry for none of it

i loved you on purpose
i was open on purpose
i still crave vulnerability & close talk
& i’m not even sorry bout you bein sorry
you can carry all the guilt & grime you wanna
just dont give it to me
i cant use another sorry
next time
you should admit
you’re mean / low-down / triflin / & no count straight out
steady bein sorry alla the time
enjoy bein yrself