Most people think of poetry as words on paper,|
but actually it is much more:
Poetry is a lightening bolt striking a forest's tallest cedar.
It's also a spark setting fire to all that’s old & worn.
Poetry is the sweet scream ah lovers at climax,
as well as the muffled, stale silence of a funeral.
It’s the smell of stale piss above grandpa's outhouse
and yes – the pungent scent ah
Aunt Norma's fresh-baked apple pie.
Poetry is the verdant, virgin green of April’s bud tips,
as well as the rich, dark mulch where centipedes lie.
It's the dandruff flakes
on a cranky old history professor's tweed jacket,
and a young child imagining its gooey debris to be some miniature galaxy.
Poetry is a smoggy sunset of a dying planet,
as well as a dawn on a world where life is just beginning.
Most of all,
it is what happens when thoughts gain music –
we should never explain it
or try to box or refrain it –
simply let it flow with its own beat.
|Shu:||Why listen to assholes describe what poetry is or isn’t?|
|Jack:||Well, an asshole needs a mouth – and a mouth needs an ear. And wherever people are listening, danger is also near.|
|Shu:||Hmm. Is that supposed to be a “poetic” reply?|