Carrying The Torch Of Poetry In Our Hearts
For centuries, poetry has regaled us, has the fever died down?
Sometimes it bleeds over in conversation
You rhymed when you didn’t mean to —
You write it down.
You meet up, link up
cuff up, get knocked up
You write it down.
You find that the winding trail
with squirrel-ran trees
is ripe for exploring — you write it down.
I am trying to understand the source for poetry. Its origins and where it is headed. I know some of its meaning and how it has been used: for eulogies, for marriages, for analysis, and inaugurations.
But what is this thing called poetry?
At once it was thriving, like a spark from two dry twigs and burst into a flame that warmed hearts and regaled even the stiffest of necks in authority. It gave Basho some notoriety watching a frog leap, and we chewed on Whitman’s leaves of grass.
Then… poetry fell ill.
It was revived behind universities for those majoring in English. Served mostly as a glitzy form of song for rap, ballads, and an interesting mix between the two in the new millennium.
The most astute and creative of poets could see their names next to “Poet Laureate” or they can make bank as a songwriter like Neyo, where feeling is put into words- put into song.
Oh, poetry is still alive.
Mostly as a zombie that can’t die. A beautiful zombie that stalks the night and day, a shell of what it once was, but morphed into something eternal. We still publish poetry. Anyone can do poetry. It has been cheapened. It has been magnified. We turn our nose up at it, but still there are those whose phrases hit us right in the solar plexus.
We call that person a poet.
They must have poetry, burning like a flame in their hearts, because when they speak it is prophecy. It is a third eye. Their words burn us in a fever making us snap enlightened.
Let’s keep these undead words close to us. Don’t let it die down like a candle’s wax engulfed by fire.
Until next time, thank you for reading, sharing, tipping, and enjoying!