On Poetry, and a poem

Poetry is something that has always given me pause. For one because it often requires one to think, to be abstract and dig deep for meaning. But also pausing in awe for the way in which others produce it. Both the awesome and the ridiculous. The best poetry provokes such intense feeling, such beauty and horror. Clever poems entertain and the comical one make us chuckle.

Poetry seems to be tried by many because it is easy. It is a way to ‘be a writer’ without much effort. The result is plenty of very bad poetry.

As a kid it was one of the first forms of writing I tried. I distinctly remember being perhaps in 1st or 2nd grade and writing a poem about a bell. I pasted it onto a bell shape that I had cut out and showed it my teachers who much praised it. I think the fact that a child would write poetry on their own time was what most fascinated them and led to their shows of encouragement.

Poetry is a form I often come back to, that I like to play with and feel inspired to try. It takes me several drafts and revisions to get it right or, perhaps more accurate, passable. But even then I am never satisfied. I do not have the natural talent for lovely arranged words that Plath or Dickinson had. I do not have the inborn rhythm that the poets of the Harlem Renaissance or the Beats had. Yet I still like to give it a go. I am just too captivated by it to not try and in trying I have found more respect for the art.

And so, with all that said, here is an offering to Apollo:


Scribbles and scratches

Glimpses and memories

A look into him

Who he may one day be

A ludicrous feeling of awe

And tentative pride

This person from me

Somehow my creation

But not

Mine. But his own

A kind of mystery

So much love

Aches as it fills

Glorious and ridiculous

Foolish… sacred

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