Remember that old phrase used when someone unintentionally uttered a rhyme? “You’re a poet, and you don’t even know it.”

Despite accidental harmonizing, I am not a poet, and I do know it.

I’ve made my living as a writer and editor, largely at newspapers, and currently at an education nonprofit. I’ve pored over hundreds of inches of copy that do the job of informing the reader but lack artistry. I’ve encountered evocative writing that brings perspective and humanity to the news. And I’ve slogged through plenty of crappy writing, working up a sweat to edit it into submission. But I wouldn’t have called even the best of this work poetry.

I’ve always seen it as an elusive, aspirational art. It’s one I appreciate, but despite my high school teachers’ best efforts, could never grasp. Sure, I learned about stanza and syntax, meter and metaphor. But how poets turned their thoughts, feelings and experiences into verse remained an enigma to me.

Then a friend got serious about his poetry and urged me to read a book he uses to improve his work. He said it broke things down so anyone could understand the mechanics and magic of poetry — and write their own.

At one of our library meetups, he reached into his worn Strand Bookstore canvas bag and pulled out the book, In the Palm of Your Hand: The Poet’s Portable Workshop, by Steve Kowit.

“Let’s read a chapter and do the exercise. It’ll be fun,” he said.

Rollercoasters are fun. Beach days are fun. Poetry exercises — not fun.

But I was surprised to discover that the book is approachable and encouraging. The author urges readers to fire up memories as fuel for creativity, stresses the art of revision, explores experimentation and tradition and includes poems by masters of their craft and lesser mortals.

Soon, poetry became more than brackets of words that mystified me. It was like learning a new language.

Here’s the prompt we followed: Conjure a vivid childhood memory, one that happened repeatedly or over a long period of time. Home in on four details and write four stanzas of four lines each (like the example by Antonio Machado).

I love structure. I could do this. And I did. My poem centered on my family’s annual nighttime journey across a long, scary bridge with tunnels burrowing under the Chesapeake Bay on the way to my aunt’s house.

The result was mediocre, as expected. But getting there was, well, fun!

Another exercise focused on poems that were lists of significant events, personal relationships or other memories. A surprisingly powerful approach, and doable, in my clumsy way.

And no, I am not sharing either of those attempts.

But I still pick up that book, sometimes to read Raymond Carver, Billy Collins or writers new to me. Other times to try an exercise or think about how it could enliven my prosaic work.

So, am I a poet now? Maybe, but only in the privacy of my home.

P.S. My friend recently was accepted into an MFA program in poetry. I was delighted to learn that his application included poems that I had read and critiqued.