They will tell you there is a right way.
They will hand you a torch and call it the sun.
They will roll their words in raw linen and whisper:
"This is what poetry is meant to be."

And you will nod.
Because they have made it so that not nodding feels like blasphemy.

But listen—
the ink does not check your credentials.
The meter does not ask if your suffering is organic.
A line does not collapse because it was crafted instead of bled.

They will tell you a poem must be naked, barefoot, aching—
as if there is no beauty in a well-cut suit.
They will decry the temple and build a pulpit in its ruins,
preaching freedom in a voice that allows no dissent.

Good poets are cult leaders,
and the first rule of the cult
is that they are not one.

So write the sonnet, carve the sestina,
sculpt the page in iambic steel.
Or break it, shatter it, scatter its bones—
but let no one call your wreckage untrue.

And if they do,
smile.
Because poetry does not kneel to priests.

I gave up my intellectual mind at least 40 years ago as I recognised that it would  not guarantee or contribute to my happiness, success or fulfilment-- this mode of thinking would tend to impede my spontaneity, joie de vivre, sense of adventure, wonder and curiosity which I deem to be my raison d'être for living.

I've found from my experience that, in many cases, intellectuals have fixed and rigid mindsets and, as such, become inflexible and even intolerant and arrogant.  Being insular and inward-looking,  they find it hard to accept the views of others, even their colleagues' or peers'.
Their thinking tends to be along this line:  I'm an authority on this subject....'.

Such people don't make good company and might not attract others to become their friends.

They can also be awfully boring.  I attended a social dinner many years ago and happened to be sitting next to an academic whose field was chemistry.  He went on non-stop for a hour telling me and those around that he had written over 50 research papers and had received various awards.  His  wife seemed ravished by his outpouring.

The hallmark of a mature person ( Confucius in 600 BCE used the terms ' superior person' and 'the gentlemen' ) lies in their humility, grace, broadmindedness, tolerance, kindness, generosity, respect for others , sense of humour, willingness to share and co-operate, and, last but not least,  their altruism as manifested in their charity and contribution to society and the nation. Confucianism regarded people as part of society and that they were measured by the good they contributed.

Tolstoy in his later years suffered from a deep spiritual crisis. In his Confessions, he wrote that intellectualism stifled his life. He looked at the common people and was amazed that they were able to bear sorrow with such courage and equanimity which he would be unable to.  He said that as soon as he cast away his intellectual life, he was cured of his existential angst.  What a revelation!

I conclude:  happiness and fulfilment is found in understanding ourselves and our place and station in life, in living in simplicity and in harmony with our fellow-men, in kindness, humility and humaneness.  All this has nothing to do with being 'intellectual'.

Since my cat died I've been feeding the birds
The small birds, the robins, wagtails, sparrows, blue ****
I've even been feeding the crows
But I kind of drew the line with the magpies
They always had a bad rep for stealing things
One day though it was very cold and frosty out
And there was this poor magpie in the garden
And he looked so sad and forlorn
I felt sorry for the poor divil so threw him out a piece of bread
Well the very next day he lands on my windowsill (now I assume it's the same bird)
And he has something shiny in his beak
And he drops it on the windowsill
It's a ring! A Fancy Ring!!!
It's like he's saying "Thank You" for the bread.

So now... now I'm training up a whole squadron of magpies.

People go missing from our lives
Either leave or disappear
Or may appear unfamiliar
Hard to feel they were once
Intimate part of your life
Had a place in your heart.

Then they depart
Either you let them go
Or they leave you.

Maybe after years
You remember them with silent tears
Wished they had not gone
You shouldn't have let them go.

Guilt sits a weight in your heart
It's you made them depart
You and you and you
It's why relationships are few.

Hold those few strong,
Who knows
You may again go wrong.

I lie in bed, awake and watching  
the dark night sky stretched wide,  
as stars like diamonds catch my eye.  
The hours pass in a gentle drift  
until dawn begins its colourful shift,  
as sunlight breaches the eastern rim,
it's fiery orange rays reach out and skim
and the warmth bleeds out across the dark,  
as I watch the sunrise paint its arc.  
Then the morning mist creeps in all grey,  
and clouds roll in on winds of change,
cooling the sky and dulling the blaze,  
as daylight arrives in a steely blue haze.

©️Lizzie Bevis