A poem should be equal to:
Not true.
A poem should not mean
But be.
If those lines, apart from being absolutely brilliant, evoke a sense of deja vu, or brought back memories from school, that's probably because most of us have read this in uniform. Ars Poetica, by Archibald MacLeish.
Yes, you recall now, don't you. Depending on who you were, you probably remember because of the stifled giggles about reading a poem about an Arse, or because of the unforgettable (though not, IMO, accurate) start...
A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,
I remember, quite vividly, balking and jumping at that line. A poem is not palpable, a poem is not mute, and a poem is certainly not a globed fruit. Unless, of course, you're holding a Mango. Now THAT is poetry in motion, even if the only motion involved is from my hand to my mouth.
But again, the poet does make up for this personal gaffe, by going on to pen those absolutely brilliant lines, as have been described above.
The reason I'm so involved in these lines is because I believe life can be lived fullest on the lines of a good poem. I look around, and see paragraphs of terse, boring prose walking around. People are so concise, so formal, so unbearably correct. Don't take me wrong, I'm all for good communication, lacking so much of it myself. Yet, you could do with a couple lines of poetry offsetting all those lines of prose. Get those feet tapping again, you know? Deep breath, cracking knuckles, stretched limbs, that sorta thing. Except that this stuff goes to your stress-busting organ, whichever that is for you.
Don't be surprised, I know people who claim they relax by using their Brain, Heart, Stomach, or even lower down,... their bladder.
Anyway, overact, exaggerate, lie to please, sing, dance, let loose, break stuff you haven't dusted for over a year, just unwind. Then go back to your dull life, armed with the knowledge that the poetry will return. I'm no philosopher, saint, or botox-enchanced, wrinkle-free, beyond sell-date celebrity. But still, lend me a ear. Do you trudge through lines of prose for a romantic couplet, or is the music in you so well and truly dead.
Author's Note: By no means is one form of living much more beneficial than the other. In fact, there are a lot of stuff you can do, whichever camp you belong to! That's right! Say, commenting on this post for example. Does that little button saying 'Publish' know if you're prose, poetry, or yesterday's pizza? I'll leave that as a practical exercise.
Not true.
A poem should not mean
But be.
If those lines, apart from being absolutely brilliant, evoke a sense of deja vu, or brought back memories from school, that's probably because most of us have read this in uniform. Ars Poetica, by Archibald MacLeish.
Yes, you recall now, don't you. Depending on who you were, you probably remember because of the stifled giggles about reading a poem about an Arse, or because of the unforgettable (though not, IMO, accurate) start...
A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,
I remember, quite vividly, balking and jumping at that line. A poem is not palpable, a poem is not mute, and a poem is certainly not a globed fruit. Unless, of course, you're holding a Mango. Now THAT is poetry in motion, even if the only motion involved is from my hand to my mouth.
But again, the poet does make up for this personal gaffe, by going on to pen those absolutely brilliant lines, as have been described above.
The reason I'm so involved in these lines is because I believe life can be lived fullest on the lines of a good poem. I look around, and see paragraphs of terse, boring prose walking around. People are so concise, so formal, so unbearably correct. Don't take me wrong, I'm all for good communication, lacking so much of it myself. Yet, you could do with a couple lines of poetry offsetting all those lines of prose. Get those feet tapping again, you know? Deep breath, cracking knuckles, stretched limbs, that sorta thing. Except that this stuff goes to your stress-busting organ, whichever that is for you.
Don't be surprised, I know people who claim they relax by using their Brain, Heart, Stomach, or even lower down,... their bladder.
Anyway, overact, exaggerate, lie to please, sing, dance, let loose, break stuff you haven't dusted for over a year, just unwind. Then go back to your dull life, armed with the knowledge that the poetry will return. I'm no philosopher, saint, or botox-enchanced, wrinkle-free, beyond sell-date celebrity. But still, lend me a ear. Do you trudge through lines of prose for a romantic couplet, or is the music in you so well and truly dead.
Author's Note: By no means is one form of living much more beneficial than the other. In fact, there are a lot of stuff you can do, whichever camp you belong to! That's right! Say, commenting on this post for example. Does that little button saying 'Publish' know if you're prose, poetry, or yesterday's pizza? I'll leave that as a practical exercise.
