Nov 2021
If one has the means to understand poetry, first make note that poetry is not to be understood. Poetry in its own fashion, is there only to be admired. It is that same aspect with any other thing that is considered “art” which has, with great efforts, helped shape society into that which now lies before us.
I write this viewpoint on my own accord, for my great love for poetry and the English literature. The fact of me being an author, has very little to do with my beliefs. The viewpoint is something far more drastic than that, a matter that needs to be attended to.
There is a matter of grave importance which has presented itself to me in a most crudely manner. “Literature is a dying art.” If one was to listen closely, they would almost hear their subtle shrieks, while the voices upon a series of books rally upon the listeners ear.
It is in that, which I propose to elaborate to the reader in a worthy note, which lies before me, alluding from a self-observation I made sometime ago, regarding one of Mr. Ray Bradbury’s more memorable quotes. He said, and I quote, “You must write every single day of your life.” I have high regards for Mr. Bradbury, however, I cannot help myself but find one flaw in his words.
If one were to write every single day of their lifespan, they would soon find that they would have nothing left to write. The process of writing does not march to a ticking clock, nor to the pounding of a drum. The words present themselves when the mind establishes the reason for them to exist.
I would define poetry, as nothing more than giving the soul the opportunity to speak on its own behalf. It is the fine line which separates, from our universe, a universe we had no knowledge that existed. Though I respect Mr. Edgar Allan Poe and his words before, once again, I both agree with, and trouble myself pondering the significance in words he shared in “The Poetic Principle.”
Mr. Poe writes, and I quote, “With me, poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.” I do say to each his own, however, if poetry is not a purpose, one would have no means as to write a single word. It is a passion, true. However, in my own words, poetry is a necessity. A necessity which people have trampled on enough where it is inches away from death.
In my own way, I speak the truth. However, truth is something one will tell when they have no alternative more. Truth is the thing people spend their lives in attempts to rid themselves of. And should they choose to run, they turn to find it nipping at their heels as a vicious beast. And in the end, as we lay dead or dying, the truth lies with us.
We create new life from books, as in painting, we capture our version of the world and everything which shrouds it. And in poetry, we establish that we are taking our first breaths. Writing begins when one finally knows what it is to dream, to stand on that same line while the glimpse of reality is behind him as he enters into a bizarre new world, a world that has not been created thus far.
I write this viewpoint on my own accord, for my great love for poetry and the English literature. The fact of me being an author, has very little to do with my beliefs. The viewpoint is something far more drastic than that, a matter that needs to be attended to.
There is a matter of grave importance which has presented itself to me in a most crudely manner. “Literature is a dying art.” If one was to listen closely, they would almost hear their subtle shrieks, while the voices upon a series of books rally upon the listeners ear.
It is in that, which I propose to elaborate to the reader in a worthy note, which lies before me, alluding from a self-observation I made sometime ago, regarding one of Mr. Ray Bradbury’s more memorable quotes. He said, and I quote, “You must write every single day of your life.” I have high regards for Mr. Bradbury, however, I cannot help myself but find one flaw in his words.
If one were to write every single day of their lifespan, they would soon find that they would have nothing left to write. The process of writing does not march to a ticking clock, nor to the pounding of a drum. The words present themselves when the mind establishes the reason for them to exist.
I would define poetry, as nothing more than giving the soul the opportunity to speak on its own behalf. It is the fine line which separates, from our universe, a universe we had no knowledge that existed. Though I respect Mr. Edgar Allan Poe and his words before, once again, I both agree with, and trouble myself pondering the significance in words he shared in “The Poetic Principle.”
Mr. Poe writes, and I quote, “With me, poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.” I do say to each his own, however, if poetry is not a purpose, one would have no means as to write a single word. It is a passion, true. However, in my own words, poetry is a necessity. A necessity which people have trampled on enough where it is inches away from death.
In my own way, I speak the truth. However, truth is something one will tell when they have no alternative more. Truth is the thing people spend their lives in attempts to rid themselves of. And should they choose to run, they turn to find it nipping at their heels as a vicious beast. And in the end, as we lay dead or dying, the truth lies with us.
We create new life from books, as in painting, we capture our version of the world and everything which shrouds it. And in poetry, we establish that we are taking our first breaths. Writing begins when one finally knows what it is to dream, to stand on that same line while the glimpse of reality is behind him as he enters into a bizarre new world, a world that has not been created thus far.
