I recently developed what I would consider a healthy obsession with the poetry of Nayyirah Waheed. I’ve never been a poetry-reading person—making room only for the occasional Rumi—which is somewhat ironic since my first name (Ozan) is Turkish for poet. Yet, the simplicity of Waheed’s poems—and her healthy disregard for poetry’s traditional rules—struck a deep chord with me. Consider this one: “would you still want to travel to that country if you could not take a camera with y...
