Poetry sings the joys and tears of life. Poems breathe air into newborn hopes; resuscitate a broken heart failing for faith; vent the stale air of sad lungs oppressed by the pressure weights of sorrow; and poetry heals the wounds and scars that life inflicts. Of course, poets normally understand these measures and doses of wordly medicine. Poetry lovers intuitively should know it already. All others who know little or like poetry little, always can, at some point. For these last mentioned, poets will still write to open dream-filled, wide-awake eyes by writing and reading more poetry.
Not all poetry has great or useful merit. Even good music with bad lyrics can have something useful, but not necessarily make great poetry. Without the use of words, music, natural noise of morning singing birds or even a sigh-ful view of a great sunset could contain poetry in it. It comes down, perhaps, to something very simple in sparse definition: poetry has a beautiful and true “thing” behind it. Above all, at its most complex, poetry creates in the spirit of writer, reader or listener, some “thing” divine and noble in its character about its creation. For these reasons — the simple and complex — we as humanity could use more poetry and less war. For one follows the other, if poetry can have any meaning at all. Poetry should bring peace, not discord.
How epic does our human story have to get before hearts can teach minds how to live well, and enjoy the poetic moments of living? Poetry should never divide us or cause harm. If it does, it betrays itself, and loses meaning as poetry. Poetry can cause good and great faith. It can also teach great lessons of the follies of our ways, while still telling a classic story — such as “The Illiad” by the ancient Greek poet, Homer (not the Simpson).
People can scoff at poetry as a waste of time, or energy, or money not earned. Poetry gives them the freedom and liberty to do so. Let them, and go on to write and read, and enjoy, poetry. No one ever wasted a pound of flesh or spilled a pint of blood by writing or reading a poem, one that helps them understand or appreciate better the meaning of existence here on earth.
Young poets will experiment and explore themes of, (sigh), “Love.” Older, more veteran hurt ones know how to talk of their material without directly describing it. Either way, poetry, real poetry, speaks truth and has genuine love as inspiration behind it.
A challenge: converse with your poetic-self. Find a reason in you to look for a muse, something that inspires your inside poetry. Write and read poetry this summer. It could make life a little better, when you hope someone would say, “Thank you, for the poetry.”
Sadnight Pory Psalm
by Pi Kielty (posthumously)
“The hours for months. Days, please . . . please . . . decades for weeks,” it mourns. Time shorn-withered to ether-waste, brings loss, their lone, a-lorned despaired haste. All possible then, now parted, seeping hopes, that minute’s moment’s best. From genesis verbs, from one form comes the rest, un-a-gether, tho’ still in hope’s breast. Leaving seconds a strand, unknown pass the mark, a place meeting, none. One mind both whole. Heaps; one gathers morrow’s sun. The other, does reap dark’s gray dim hum. A’far noon, the hammer shadow sparks light, as outward warm, night’s inner doubts, below plains, will swarm. Time not enough. The day did blind, yet night does age. “Aback,” harked the god’s command, “Day ends.” he said, “For I call night not mine, nor blessed.” Bright pale, no gleam of stars this evening, nor the smile seen. Night . . . dreams of . . . creation. Day undaunted, flees to westward run. One for a day, or a lesser night, the union long undone. Sad night remains un-redeemed . . , unwanted . . ; always missing god’s shining sun.