Poetry

    Writing poetry is unlike writing many other forms of literature. To write poetry one has to be both disciplined and inspired. Writing in all of its forms takes practice and there is no greater teacher to a writer than time and a pen; poetry is no different in that regard. Where poetry differs is in the necessary and often elusive ability to find inspiration. Inspiration is a gift and an ability, it takes practice and forethought for a poet to open themselves up to the world in search of meaning and drive. This is the ability. One can find an uncommon beauty in a flower, a skyline, or a cup of coffee purchased at 2 in the morning from a Shell gas station. But, enough flowers and enough skylines and eventually a poet can become desensitized to the natural grace around him. In this regard, inspiration is a gift. A gift must be given freely and received readily otherwise a gift is wasted, and the same gift cannot be accepted over and over again otherwise the gift loses its value. One can only look at so many skylines before they instead want to look elsewhere. The solution for this lack of inspiration is to re-sensitize oneself to the world and to resolve yourself to think of greater truths.

    Sit for a while and focus internally, eventually inspiration and re-sensitization will occur naturally. Focus internally and find that line of good and evil, chaos and order, and humanity and eternity. Once that link to greater truths has been re-established, one can gaze at the flowers and their simple beauty and appreciate it once more. Poems need neither structure nor rhyme to be felt and understood, poems need only to express the human condition honestly and persistently in order to be poetry. In this regard poetry is similar to theology and philosophy, in that the greatest works speak of timeless things. Truth and beauty are both virtues for a reason, and by speaking of one using the other as a medium, a poet can invoke something deep within the human psyche.

    Across all civilizations throughout time, the human condition has remained constant. We have evolved and been created in order to understand one another and as a byproduct of this ability we are able to communicate our joy and our burdens despite vastly distant circumstances. Not only that, but we are able to take that ability, and turn insentient objects into symbols for the human condition. We have all loved, and lost, been broken by our circumstances and forced to recover. We can see the struggle of others and recognize it in ourselves. We can even see the struggle of objects and recognize it in ourselves. It is for that reason that the oldest scripts are poetry and the oldest tales are prose.

    Now this is not to discredit poetry that is not humble in scope. Take for example Christopher Marlowe's poem The Passionate Shepard to His Lover

 Come live with me and be my love,

And we will all the pleasures prove,

That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,

Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the Rocks,

Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks,

By shallow Rivers to whose falls

Melodious birds sing Madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of Roses

And a thousand fragrant posies,

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle

Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool

Which from our pretty Lambs we pull;

Fair lined slippers for the cold,

With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and Ivy buds,

With Coral clasps and Amber studs:

And if these pleasures may thee move,

Come live with me, and be my love.

The Shepherds’ Swains shall dance and sing

For thy delight each May-morning:

If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me, and be my love.

     It is true that upon first glance this poem seems quite empty and simple outside of its meter and rhyme. But this poem, written by an English playwright who was born in the mid 1500's speaks fondly of the human condition. Neither him nor I have ever worked as a shepherd. I have never stepped foot onto English soil and will never know what it is like to live in the 1500's. And yet.... I know what it is like to love another. I know what it means to want to provide for my lover despite my means. I may not be a shepherd trying to buy slipper buckles made of gold, but I do know what it is like to love someone and want the best for her. I may not be a shepherd, but I still know what it is like to see my lover with rosy eyes and think the future will be fine.

That understanding, established across time, which speaks to the human condition.

That is poetry.