Poetry

To me poetry is not able to be defined nor constrained.
Any effort given in honesty is poetry,
even if its intrinsic worth is questionable,
due to the act of trying to create.
Poetry, it has been said,
is the distillation of human language,
a concentration of emotion and meaning layered in artistic form.
 
The way I feel poetry cannot be classified,
much as the way I feel about poetry
cannot be quantified, measured or compared.
 
I see in my mind’s eye as I write this
my dear grandmother holding her copy of The Prophet,
the one I have in my closet today,
she read the lines of a master with passion,
with fervor,
as though she were not only trying to teach me,
but still,
to learn, to learn.
I see the gleam in her eyes this moment,
though she’s been gone these sixteen years,
I can smell the lotion she wore and I can see her hand holding the book,
her eyes scanning the page but her mind…
her heart…
her being was not standing in a room,
she was not reading from a book,
she was living those emotions just as Gibran felt while he wrote.
 
I remember the first time I picked up a book of poetry
and saw my first Wordsworth, Keats, Yeats, Poe.
I remember vividly the moment I read Frost and
felt my soul split
in two
as I tried in vain to choose a path,
and maybe I would have taken the path more safe,
more comfortable, but he…
well.
 
To me there is nothing more serious
and simultaneously more playful than poetry,
wordplay,
rhyme,
structure,
freely rambling down
a syllabic journey of chaotic thought.
 
I do not write for you,
nor any semblance of notoriety or recognition.
I do not write poetry for the sake of instructing any,
save myself.
 
This life has given me a puzzle,
a confused jumble of edges and curves,
a confounding mess of tangles and twists,
and though I dare not hope
I will someday lay all the lines straight,
I cannot believe there is a more worthwhile pursuit,
a more meaningful task
I might set myself
than to sit with my thoughts,
and write my mess clean.
 
One line at a time.
 
What poetry means to you?
I’d love to hear,
I’ll read your stories and enjoy your truth.
I would never pretend to know
from your eyes
what color the sunset is,
I would never assume
that I could
live your emotion.
 
We can try.

1 thought on “Poetry”

We Would Love To Hear Your Thoughts

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s