The modern Poet towers over me, standing on piles of words, handheld degrees, like a decree, held tightly against the chest. Why is it that modern poetry makes me feel so small every time I venture to read it?
Outside the window, moment after moment, the night sky flashes in a brilliance of lightshow. Bursting from the shadow of memory, thunder rumbles and rolls on and on into the dark. We all stop. Rehearsing the truth in my mind, I had nothing to say. The dog trembles in tremolo. In the shatterd nightsky, crackling eggs. We momentarily left our houses, built on convenience, and entered a bliss built by the ancients.
“Why is it that modern poetry makes me feel so small every time I venture to read it?”
Maybe that’s its purpose – for you at this time? Or it awaits your finding of another way to use it?
It’s true, it says a lot more about me than it does the poetry. And still I go back for more.
I suspect that’s the way to do it. 😀
Absolutely Ben. I suppose, like all good art, taking the “me” out or reducing me is the quality of the art. But I also think that the elitism that presupposes the good art is problematic, at least for me. 😜
Yes. I never had too much time for elitism, Like a lot of professional ‘therapists’ a lot of ‘real’ poets in rather too far up their own behinds as to stick in my craw. (If I can mix my metaphors. 😀 )
Of course someday, maybe ten years from now, there might be somebody reading this conversation and say that WE’RE the elitists… 😄
Well, they are welcome to have their opinions, however misguided they might be. 😀 😀 😀
😂
Just lovely, words and images both
Thank you so much, I really appreciate it!