Ihate to admit it now, but I grew up with an aversion to poetry.
With the exception of Shel Silverstein (because what kid doesn’t love Shel Silverstein), poetry made my eyes glaze over with boredom and confusion. My teachers tried to force it on me all throughout grade school and I resisted with a stubborn disinterest.
It made no sense.
They pay people to write this stuff? I always thought.
But now, as of recent years, I’ve fallen deeply in love with the art. I don’t know if it has to do with me getting older, but nothing makes me well up with tears like a good poem.
What’s strangely awesome is, I have no idea why most of the time.
Poetry strikes the chords of emotion at a deeper level of consciousness than the logical mind can understand.
Great poetry just… works.
I love the freedom of expression possible with the written word. It’s a refreshing contrast to the blogging/tabloid world of today, where everyone (including myself) is so focused on clearly spelling things out for people. There’s a start and a finish and you’re done.
With poetry, there’s massive depth. You can hang out on one line or one stanza for an afternoon. You can savor those words and they mean something different, but personal, to everyone who reads them.
Poetry, if you let it, can open you up.
When I work with people on writing/blogging, I suggest everyone read poetry.
There’s a rhythm and cadence that poetry offers that’s not present in any other written form. And it doesn’t need background music. The music lies in the words themselves.
Even the physical arrangement
of the words
make for a quite spectacular
So, please… Read poetry.
Allow it to sweep you away.
And infuse your writing with it when you can.
I am open to the poetic. My mind is receptive to words of a more lyrical, rhythmic, wayward bent.
Poetry creates the space for me to hang out in the mystery of life. Because when I’m okay with things not being so literal, I leave room for deeper personal meaning.
I see the poetic in my life. Maybe if I were open to the poetic, I’d not search so hard for the period at the end of each line of my life. Maybe I’d be okay with things being more
Because when I can resist the urge to fight so hard for the hard-stop periods, I leave room for the divine to enter.
And to take me deeper.
And so it is.