Please help yourself to the definition, and get mired in philosophy and religion, from the making of a person to creation itself

Disclaimer: I don’t read poetry often, nor do I show my poems to many. I write because I cannot help myself… literally… Many’s the times I almost caused an accident because I was trying to ignore a particular turn of phrase or the numbering of a faiku (that’s like a haiku that has the proper numbering and maybe the link to nature, but does not respect the form or spirit so it’s not real… therefore it’s fake: faiku). Does that even make sense or shall I blame artistic temperament?

It used to seem strange to me that after an education full of poets, their miserable lives, their usually painful deaths and their tortuous paths of creation, I could still (still!) consider writing the dratted things! Nothing to explain, people, you can’t have glory nor money nor most of the time recognition, provided one looks for the above. You get heartache and sleepless nights and odd measures of joy when it sounds just so and tells what you require it to say, which makes sense to almost no one else.

Sour grapes? Possibly you’d think that I would have more to show after 30 years of writing poetry than a few typed pages which would absolutely and rightly so be demolished by anyone with a bit of knowledge. Haven’t you been told that if you work hard and apply yourself and all the rest of the virtues then something good will happen? Yeah, right! Dream on, buster!

And the problem is that criticism of poetry can only break the heart. It can’t change the poems though… they always, always sound weird and wrong after editing, they are not yours anymore… so the only thing you get is that your best is not good enough… did I mention heartbreak? And you can’t stop writing… so you learn to hide, and you surround yourself with people who don’t read poetry, and you lie that you’re over it and if by chance you are discovered you say that you are just fooling around… And from time to time, rarely (heartbreak is awful!) you open a book of your favourite poet and you get lost for a minute or so in a world where poetry makes sense, it’s there for others to enjoy and consider and feel… If you are brave enough (not always) you gift a book of poems to someone special, knowing (heartbreak!) that it will most probably stay in their bookcase for years without being read, and the red-hot passion of Neruda, the rueful wit of Basho, the deep gentleness of Tagore are lost again.

There is something terrible about lost words… why can’t hearts be led to the words that describe them?


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