Photobucket - CatifungPoetry has infused my soul lately. I am hungry for it and jealous.
Often I see skies like the one pictured above - Masterfully painted, uniquely designed, intensely mesmerizing. For a moment hypnotized, I die. And I relish death, or is it really life?, and wish I could verbally express its captivating issness... with you.
A poet would know how.
And so while wallowing in the greenest envy, I wonder how a poet's mind works. I had heard that poets were dreamers. But as I read more poetry I am led to disagree. They are realists, they are fanatic perceivers who see the depth of the observed. Then they recount what they see.
I had also thought that poets wrote of love and beauty. Yet, now I see that is not true. Love- hate, beauty-ugliness, war-peace, sadness-joy are all the same to a poet. They are merely emissaries of truth.
Words, often without logical meaning, are scripted in a weave that titillates our mind, that sometimes shakes our souls. We all know words, so how do poets interlock them, juxtapose them to create something so often illogical, yet something that, like a homing device, can fly directly to pierce our hearts.
I used to think poetry was contrived, intricate, abstract. I didn't get it. Now I know. I was wrong. For if anything, it is uncomplicated and straightforward. True poets are not out to impress us, to trick us by their flare. They are reporters of the rudimentary - of guts and blood, sex and lust, of heaven and earth. They are inspired... in spirit. They report reality, which even if we try to complicate, is after all, really simple.
Poets are not self-conscious, they reveal themselves, unabashed by what others may judge. They are driven by the details of their moments and they reproduce, through words, life's ordinary magic.
I am excited at the prospect of reading more; actually I am passionate about it. For me a poem is like a meditation, guided by an enlightened soul.
Dare I dream of writing it someday? I do. I wish I were a poet.
O Me! O Life! by Walt Whitman
O ME! O life!... of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?
That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.