Poetry & The Poetic (In Other Words, Poetry is for Everyone!)

 'A song of the rolling earth, and of words according,

Were you thinking that those were the words, those upright lines? those

     curves, angles, dots?

No, those are not the words, the substantial words are in the ground and sea,

They are in the air, they are in you.' ~ Walt Whitman, 'Song of the Rolling Earth'

Ok, so not everybody's into poetry. I know it, I get it, but I do dedicate a lot of time trying to change it!

Why? Because poetry is not what they think! It's not boring, it's not elitist, it's not posh, it's not la-de-dah, it's not just for old people/academics/readers etc, it's not intimidating.... I have gone over this argument many times before so I'll not repeat myself now, except to say that:

Poetry is a type of writing that measures the pulse of life.  Therefore it's alive. It vibrates with emotion. Want to know how you're feeling? Check the barometer of verse. Want a handle on what the heck is going on in your head/heart? Go to a poem. Fed up? Let poetry inject a dash of va-va-voom into you. Wondering, despondent, at what's it all about? Seek out a poem - it has a good degree of the answers. Or even, want to read something fun, have a laugh? Go to a poem, a short, humorous one. It'll make you laugh, and think at the same time, but most importantly - feel. 

Cause poetry is all about feeling. That's it. 

Fancy feats of linguistic trapeze may appeal to some poets (we love language you see, love testing it to see what it can do), but really, at its core, as its raison d'etre, poetry offers a template to get at the things that really matter in life (hence, it's more about communication than creating riddles) and that's why it matters to so many people. 

Hmm... I might have piqued some of your interest with that, but not all I'm sure. So I'm gonna come at it in a new way here in this post. Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to the Poetic. Da-da-da-dah - drumroll please! The Poetic is first cousin to poetry. Here, let me explain:

Poetic, adj

1. Of or relating to poetry

2. Having a quality or style characteristic of poetry

3. Suitable as a subject for poetry

4. Of, relating to, or befitting a poet

5. Characterized by romantic imagery

6. having or expressing the qualities of poetry (as though aesthetic or emotional impact)

7.displaying the beauty, imaginative qualities, etc. found in good poetry

The Poetic is the one we're all familiar with. What exactly is 'poetic' I hear you ask and how are we familiar with the poetic? Well, ask yourself this: Have you ever stopped to gaze at a sunset and admire the colourful beauty? Or how about the sun itself, and remark upon what a beautiful day it is? Has your heart ever skipped a beat at the sight of someone you love? Do you marvel at a smile? Have you ever described something as 'beautiful' - be it a person, a painting, a rug, a shrug, a facial feature, a day, a flower, a food? Well, they're all touches of the poetic.  

The poetic is that significant otherness: beauty, meaning, awe, mattering. The poetic is that which lifts us above our daily routines and untethers us from flat head-to-ground attitudes; it is a glimpse of something else, something higher, which we usually comprehend not with our heads, but our hearts. In other words - poetry - just in a less wordy form. 

And we all need this form of poetry in our lives. It's the stuff that makes life worthwhile, a smile, a chink of sunlight, the sweet delirium of romance, the sight of a field of flowers, the rustle of waves, a moonlit night, possibility, happiness, the revelations of beauty. This line from the film 'Dead Poet's Society' sums it up best: 

So you see, don't let the word 'poetry' frighten you! Ok, so you may not be ready to dip your nose in a book of poetry just yet (but, if you feel so inclined , try an anthology first! There are collected editions of poems for bad times, good times, love times, practically everything! I'd recommed 'Staying Alive' - the best of poems for living that are guaranteed to hit you hard in the gut, heart and head). That's ok. Just stick with the poetic. Notice it. Appreciate it. And know, that poetry is just the wording of it. Just the wording of it, the verbalising, the writing part of it. 

Allen Ginsberg once said that  poetry is 'that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.'  Making the private world public. The poetic refers to this private world we all dwell in, our innermost thoughts and feelings. Poetry just gives voice to this world, in a language that is tempered to hit us hard, to appeal to both our minds and our hearts, a strong undistilled language that may riddle at first, but ultimately, enlightens, enlivens, enchants. 

Poetry is all around us and within us in the shape of the 'poetic'; poetry merely is the medium that renders this. It's like as Walt Whitman says, the real words, 'the substantial words' are in ' the ground and sea, They are in the air, they are in you.' Poetry, is everywhere. And all of us, read it in some shape or form. So why should we grimace at the written form of it?

~Siobhán

#NaPoWriMo Poem Offerings!

Well, we're midway into April almost and I have to say I'm enjoying the #NaPoWriMo challenge of writing a poem a day! So far, I've missed none (probably go and jinx the Muse saying that....hmmm) and I'm feeling very self-disciplined for a change, yay! 

Usually, poetry for me is a come-and-go business; I only write it when something strikes me: a word, a phrase, a thought, an image,  an emotion that needs to be pressed into words.

So it's oh so new for me to 'sit down and write' a poem not on a whim, and just on the responsibility I've set myself. And you know what, scared as I was of it, it's actually turned out to be quite fun. (And it also helps that I'm aided and abetted by two poet friends, joining in the challenge - thank you girls!) So hopefully, by the end of the month I'll have a boxful of poems, like butterflies (see above)... ready to let loose on the world. (Well, maybe.)

Anyway, seeing as it is National Poetry Month (and April, my favourite, most motivating of all the months!), I'm going to share a few of my poetry writing efforts here - something which I never really do, due to: 

a/An innate fear. Poetry bares the soul you know - writing prose and blogs and stuff is relatively safe compared to the risky platform of poetry.

b/Not being good enough. Oh the affliction that every writer is plagued with! But Poets, being more sensitive (aha) feel it more.

c/ Copyright issues. If ever publication becomes a possibility...

d/ I don't want to bore everyone to tears or seem to be self-promoting! It's not that I particularly want any commentary, it's more so just to salute the whole idea of NaPoWriMo, as in -  lookey here, I'm doing it! And guess what? It's fun. Yes, poetry is fun! 

BUT, I will make an exception in honour of the month that's in it and also, all posts from now on, I am triumphnat to announce - will be on the theme of poetry. Stay tuned for that! (I know I haven't been posting regularly, but will be back on form soon!) 

And by the way, for those of you intrigued by the poem a day challenge - log on to  www.napowrimo.net for more details as well as a daily prompt!

Vive la poetry! 

~Siobhán

April Fool's 

Fool me once
shame on you.
Fool me twice
shame on me.

Or so  -
the saying goes.
But really, you
could fool me

a hundred times
over and again,
and I'd still be
a fool  
             for you.
 

Daffodils (A Haiku) 

Like yellow ground stars

with loud trumpets attached 
announcing ‘it’s Spring’! 

Narrative For A Bad Hair(Cut) Day 

A loss of self, of strength? Like Samson -

all those lustrous locks
lobbed off, his source of power
hacked to pieces by sneaky
scissors (not an axe or a hatchet
blow) - warrior no more, denuded,
vulnerable, as if his hair
were sword and shield together.
Moral of the story? Vanity,
for sure. (A man with long hair?)

Or Rapunzel brave? Selfless -

sacrificing your own charms
to free yourself, abseil down
a forty foot tower terrace
(metaphorical, of course)
feeling the wind, finally
in your hair, leaving behind the coil
of the past, in a feminist twist.
Moral of the story? Freedom, self-realisation.
(Or, getting rid of the knots)

Surprise 

Exclamation point eyes
when you look at me,
stun my full-stopped self
into revision. 

Aurora’s Encore*                       *(the name of the winning horse in last week's Grand National race)

They say he came running up the rear

like a flash of sunlight.
No one expected it. Punters
clutched their prayer pleas
and huddled further
into the smacking down sun.
They were sorry now they’d chosen wrong. 
But so is luck: sixty-six to one.  

The wild whim of unheralded victory, 

so much sweeter 
than the oh-so-certain win.
Like Larkin's old horses               
coming round again, 
late on, like a cheer.  Dawn
again, a second chance, a new light,
a fable: sixty-six to one. 




You're Like a Haiku 

You’re

short
and sweet
and
to
the
point 

just like a haiku -

sun coming out strong,

after the day’s rain showers,

rainbows everywhere -

a

peek-

a-

boo

sentiment

a hit

and

run

say

and

split

heart

flutter,

always

ending

too

soon

but

forever

lingering;

one simple

image

and a million

after-

thoughts

to hang on

to

like how

the floating lotus

unaware of its beauty

keeps the eye watching.      

 

Love is Like Ballooning 

The rise,

the fear,
the floating

the up, up and away

inflated giddy feeling
of being carried

to a different altitude,

a vantage point,
a grand vista view

where everything

is suffused with light
and the revelation

of new appreciation

harnesses hearts
together, fire and air

and faith combining

to make an apparatus capable
of sustaining flight.

(The visible,

literal aspiring
to new heights.)

But the dangers too:

putting yourself
in the arms of the elements,

steered by the whims

of an indifferent wind,
while always the threat

of deflating, of falling

back to earth,
back to ordinary.

But oh the spectacle

while they’re in the air
defying gravity -

like victorious teardrops

suspended by
invisible stars.

© Siobhán McLaughlin