Poetry, good poetry, washes over the soul like an Ocean claims a ship for Its menagerie, along with good men. When the last word is finished and one is grasping for air, the reader, one who has opened the heart and mind, will learn to swim, and become strong in the sojourn to the shore of understanding, insofar knowing a little more about the universe around and within them; some may correctly argue they are one in the same. It is an exposition of the artist bearing all, beauty and ugliness, for the sake of that which is bigger than judgment, for truth. He stands naked, in his poems for all to see and judge and become inspired. It creates the most intimate of relationships between reader and artist. This is more intimate than sex, or love, or even the relationship between the Divine and Its subjects. This relationship to the artist is bittersweet, for whether or not the artist’s poem is accepted or disliked weighs heavily on the weak hearted, while those whom care not of what is deemed good or bad and accept that which is will revel in the exposure. And so too, will the reader get drunk in beauty and truth and love and death and sex and above all else, sagacity.
Poetry can, too, be like a bricklayer’s trade. A poet uses words as stones, crosses through life’s mud as a way to understand or want for clarity of what otherwise makes no sense. These stones wield the path behind the footprints of the artist, and for his own soul and others. For ages poets have used words as an account, or path, to find beauty in themselves. To dwell in the words and emotions, made by the calm mind is to extend a glimpse to the light inside. It is with the words of truth and pity, and piety that the poet finds enlightenment. This poet, disciplined in his art, in his realized universe, and abundant with listenings from the heart is the poet whom finds Voice. No longer does this poet dwell in the whinings of angst and immature despair, but rather uses such as instruments to grow and promote growth.
What deep and clear axiom is embodied and can be autopsied in a poem! That which is taken out of a poem differs among readers, and more importantly among the same reader at different times, as well as the poet himself. These interpretations are beautiful for they are exactly what the audience needs to hear; they are that which stems a tree of reality (or at the very least temporeality). That is to say, poems are the mirrors through which we see ourself and our inequity and strength. There, is found: truth.
Many achieve the status of Sage in the realm of words, like Dickenson, Whitman, Ferlinghetti, Ginsberg, Hughes, Homer, Virgil, Collins, Bukovski, Morrison, Angelou, Knight… Many more strive to achieve it and may hedge mediocrity. It is said that there are two types of poets. First, the great poets; they live life through their poetry, and in turn sacrifice themselves to the quill-tip crucifix. Second is the bad poet. These are the ones that live a life of poetry, and make true happiness a state of mind by living! Then, they slapdashedly jot it down later. I, therefore, pride myself on being a bad poet, and live a life meant for living. I envy those, however, that have make the word their life and exalt them with the fullest esteem I hope to one day hold in my naked hands, palms out for all to see, and judge, and glory.
