At a recent event at the Katharine Cornell Theatre I was crowned Martha’s Vineyard poet laureate, succeeding Lee McCormack. I was given a two-year term, a plastic laurel wreath and a toga. Me? A poet laureate? How did this come to pass? I was not known, at least publicly, for writing poetry. I was more of a scribbler in the dark.

A few years ago, though, I decided to venture into the light and submitted some of my poems to what I thought was an audition to be a part of the Martha’s Vineyard Poetry Society. But then in a blind test, 10 judges decided I would become the next poetry spokesman for the Island. Again, who me? And what did this new power even mean?

Let me turn to United States poet laureate Charles Wright, who has held the post since September and sought guidance from his active predecessors, specifically Robert Pinsky, Rita Dove and Billy Collins. First, he said to an interviewer that Mr. Pinsky told him “you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” Mr. Wright, who is 79, thought about that, but then surmised, “But they were all young and vibrant, and I’m old and vibrant. So I’m just going to sit here and vibrate and not do a thing.”

I’m totally sympathetic, empathetic and all those other thetics. However, I do believe I have now been entrusted with the honor and the duty to spread the gospel of poetry, especially to all those who think of a poet as some exposed ganglia in human form, running his hands through his hair, licking a pencil point, working in a little cubicle in the offices of Hallmark Cards.

I like poetry and think everyone should. It’s the perfect format for the attention-challenged. The end product is usually briefer than most creative endeavors. To me, it’s a mind exercise, another way to look at something. It’s layering words, distilling meaning. It’s a love of language, its cadence, rhythm, music. My kind of poetry is jazz. It’s riffing.

Think of what a poem can say and how it can say it. It can be a synthesized sentiment, a condensed insight, a snapshot of a truth, a condition or a mood, an observation of one of life’s absurdities or illusions, a song to ponder rather than sing, an arrangement of words as if in a bouquet or a puzzle. It’s a love, a passion, a fever, a playfulness, a satire, a rearrangement. It’s putting language through an autopsy — where ideas can go autopsy turvy.

If you can think of words as food for thought, then try playing with your food. It’s a good way to rearrange your brain, dust off some unused parts and get cleverness out of your system. Every once in a while I drift into a haiku, that simple three-line Japanese poem of five syllables, seven syllables and five more. For example, here’s one called Futile.

Fit as a fiddle
In fine fettle — yet how fast
Fetal turns fatal

Ah, the thrills of conjugating and declining! Now you try it. I sincerely hope poetry is still being taught in our schools. If not, it should be brought back. It’s great for opening the mind and extending the thought process. And while we’re at it, let’s bring back the teaching of civics. Every American should know how this nation is supposed to function. Lately I’ve been feeling that if I asked folks for the definition of civics, most would say “more than one Honda.” I bet there’s a poem in that.

When I’m in the mood for reading poetry, I usually turn to Emily Dickinson, William Carlos Williams, Marianne Moore, Philip Larkin, James Tate, and laureates like Billy Collins and Charles Wright. Sometimes I float all the way back to the memorable iambic pentameters of Alexander Pope.

On the Vineyard, you can’t throw a metaphor without hitting at least three poets. So as my first act to spread the gospel, I’ve helped launch the Poetry Café at the Vineyard Playhouse. This event premiered in November in the handsome new lobby at the playhouse and will continue one Tuesday evening a month until the spring. I’ll be hosting the next café on Dec. 16 at 7:30 p.m., featuring readings by West Tisbury poet laureates Justen Ahren and Fan Ogilvie, and Lee McCormack.

While I’m still vibrating, allow me to close with a poem about poetry.

         Inspiration

And once again I sit waiting
Waiting and staring
Staring and wrestling
With pages of words banging into each other
In the dark

Like a romantic suitor to the rescue
Sunlight slips through my window
Serenades the festive ficus in the corner
(never to be taken for a wallflower)
Dances over to my desk
Cutting a rug
Dappling the wood grain
Refreshing my face
Illuminating my words
It pauses over my pages, hovering
(cue the musicians inside my head)
A fanfare for the unfinished

Then performing like a television chef
Slicing and dicing
In and out of shadows
It takes a pinch of tropes, a dash of rhythm,
A dollop of phrasing, a measure of meter,
A soupçon of meaning
Voila!
A recipe for a verbal soufflé
If I follow it, what then?
Will I receive the kudos of a celebrated cook
Or play the victim
To yet another romantic suitor to the rescue?

And once again I sit waiting

Arnie Reisman and his wife, Paula Lyons, regularly appear on the weekly NPR comedy quiz show, Says You! He also writes for the Huffington Post.