I am a poet. Since the age of fourteen I have bent my pen and thought towards pouring out the lyrical corners of my soul onto paper. Often received was the ‘why’ from peers, family and even friends. Admittedly, there is little market for poetry volumes these days. Much of the younger generations tend to attribute poetry to the realm of homework, or as an old fashioned method of expression; the best man could do before‘texting’ was invented.
Upon reflection, I can understand the parameters of this mindset, schoolwork mentality notwithstanding; good, true poetry requires time to produce, not to mention a bit of concentrated thought. Trying to ‘text’ poems would be arduous; the very idea brings to mind a person on a hill, trying to fervently communicate recipes in semaphore. Poem materials are generally old-fashioned, such as notebook and pen; however, several of my poet acquaintances use naught but Word and a laptop to compose their prose.
Time is the greatest luxury item of all and most fine, worthy things call for a sizable share of it.Poetry requires an additional expense: Truth. The words themselves open a small portico in the soul of the writer and unlike literature the general public is then invited in to peruse at will and scrutinize. They are directed in a steady stream up velvets roped paths; onlookers stop and view each line, weighing both effect and meaning. Some browsers give a philosophical nod and move on; some shake their heads in puzzlement. A few, however, will stand and ponder and walkaway uplifted, even moved.
Such is poetry; it can be mere scribbles on a paper napkin scented with the oily perfume of diner french fries. It can be typed up via PC and left to breaths while the poet searches for the perfect, subtle font in which to ‘set the mood’. The presentation method matters not, for though humbly shown or elegantly tinted the lines will be treated equally; each word will be read aloud or, whispered, audibly tested and savored for the complete poetic experience.
Poetry can expound on anything, anywhere to anyone; unconstrained by literary requirements, opinion or the woes of advertising trends, poems allow one to un-tap emotion (whether all of it, or a merely portion thereof) letting it drip down and run over the page. Something as simple as a string of thoughts, inspired by some action or scene, can provoke the most profound interest in humans; it spans race, time and cultures.
Nothing seems to incite curiosity in our fellow man more than how others see the world and what they are thinking. After a few false starts, we even begin to understand Shakespeare’s perspective, by the penning of his lines. The views and genius of Wordsworth, Elliot and Keats hold relevance even for the most agile and dedicated texter.
A breath… a moment… a look at a few lines… a pause to reflect and enjoy… a reverie. A true poet causes simultaneous interest and idyll… a tear and a sigh… recollections and shouts. They write not for fame, for there is but little to go around in this sphere; they write for themselves. As to how it is done, nothing is simpler: the moment is either captured or it is not.
A poet must write; there is no ‘why’.
Meredith Greene
