No matter what anyone may say, it is our belief that Poetry is not dead. We are a family of poets, and we contend that the world will always need more verse — whether on page or stage, under a beret, recited in music or whatever form. Poetry survives, and don’t you forget it!
Rafael, our resident poetmaster, expresses verse in volumes. Noél, when he applies himself to something other than “techno-babble”, is an eloquent thinker in his own right. Myself, I tend to stir poetic language and license into my prose.
Herewith, however, for the sake of poetry for the sake of poetry alone, I shall ascribe to myself the oft-neglected purpose of crafting new stanzas that observe life on this ball of water and dust as only poetry can. Anyway, I kind of need more lyric lines to begin each chapter of my nonfiction series LA PIÑATA, since expanding the project to seven books.
(Correction, make that nine.)
In honor of my first “poetic reflections” column, I present two offerings . . . an old poem and a new . . . about poetry! Read them in good health.
Is the soul of literature
The heart of being human
The nature of us all
A magnifying glass, a microscope
That peers at the tiniest particle
Of earthy mundane life
And elevates it to grandeur
Poetry, to me
Is a wake-up call
To look around
And perceive things differently
Through which to observe
And think great thoughts
Fragments of life
The stained broken glass
Verses on parchment
The voice of song
Rhyme and reason
With folded wings
But now it is free
An exuberant bird
Released to soar
And startle the mind.
ODE TO A POEM
What is it that cannot be defined in mere terms
But by words that sing like larks at heart
The song of every feather
And ring clear as bells that toll in crisp weather
Yet can freeze a moment
Like a winter’s day
And on little cat feet
Snatch my breath away?
What is it about a poem
That cannot be just written
But engineered and composed
Until we are smitten
Sketched and gushed and spilled
Like drops of frenzied inspiration
Etched and rushed and willed
To the point of poignant desperation?
What is it that rhymes like a tune
Strikes a chord and beats in my breast
Yet does not grow tired or frail with age
For it is always clear and fresh?
What is it, indeed, but a poem
The nimble word dance of the tongue
That speaks to mind and soul of images
Succinct, surreal, common and uncommon