A wonderful treatise on what poetry is.


To me poetry is not able to be defined nor constrained.
Any effort given in honesty is poetry,
even if its intrinsic worth is questionable,
due to the act of trying to create.
Poetry, it has been said,
is the distillation of human language,
a concentration of emotion and meaning layered in artistic form.
The way I feel poetry cannot be classified,
much as the way I feel about poetry
cannot be quantified, measured or compared.
I see in my mind’s eye as I write this
my dear grandmother holding her copy of The Prophet,
the one I have in my closet today,
she read the lines of a master with passion,
with fervor,
as though she were not only trying to teach me,
but still,
to learn, to learn.
I see the gleam in her eyes this moment,
though she’s been gone these sixteen years,
I can…

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