What is poetry to the artistically challenged? Words and rhymes on a page, set to a metre obliquely defined. Those with empty plates need not the epiphanic call. Those with shuttered eyes feel just as strongly or not at all.
But poetry doesn’t qualify with definitions. It drives from wordsworth’s imagination, Shelly’s congress, and Oliver’s nature. There’s no central hub, no education that can build a poet, it flows from the center and defies the rigid form. A delineated life finds no challenge. The poet writes from bumps and triumphs, from rising suns and darkest coffins.
The gloriously nested live their solitary experiences, while Frost’s road calls upon those seeking a truer form. Each word put to page, each cigarette struck finds a home nestled in expression. Poetry seeks its prey in the weak and destitute, forcing fingers to spell out our own demise. It’s a clarion call of mental action, a choice we do not make.
