April 21, 2022

Eating Poetry—the Confessional & Raw Art of Expression.


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Plato said: “Poetry is nearer to vital truth than history.”

That’s quite a statement, but boy do I believe it.

Being a poet is extremely personal, and writing poetry is confessional and raw.

It’s an individual sport.

There is nobody around to hinder you or tell you to cap the well, and once you tap in, it’s just you and your words and your desire to create something memorable for yourself and for the benefit of others.

A poet’s expression of their internal truth is pure and can be quite magical. Like a painter with an empty canvas, another beautiful work awaits you.

Romantic, deep, revealing, intimate, heartfelt, intense, or just a good ole fun romp—I welcome them all.

There is no poem I’ve read that wasn’t worth my time—not one.

And speaking of romps, let’s eat a little poetry for breakfast—courtesy of the incredible Mark Strand, whose birthday just passed on April 11.

“Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.” ~ Mark Strand, Eating Poetry

You can read the entire poem here.

I love everything about this one. The imagery, the surrealism, and the dark and creative scenario, which really made me smile. Humorous and so simple and creative with a great title.

My own expressions through poetry are a way for me to feel heard. It’s the clearest way I can speak when nobody is there listening in, or maybe doesn’t care to! I can choose to have a voice and speak honestly, truthfully, and daringly from the heart.

William Wordsworth said it this way: “Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity.”

Permissive and poesy, uncloaked and cozy…

I love when I reach that feeling of openness in my heart and the willingness to make something happen with the pen that will—for me anyway—serve a higher purpose and liberate me, or make it clear in my soul what’s real to me.

Once the lines start coming, they find their way to an ending, and until the next time I feel open to write, I may sit for a while and fully embrace my “post-writing” feelings, and try to gain an even deeper understanding of my motives and my truths—in life and love.

And the poem I just wrote.

Because my words aren’t just words. Whether waggish and whimsical, or pensive and profound—the unwrapped heartbeats inside me will somehow make it out, and there is always a reason why. Alone in my solitude, hemmed in on a crowded train, or sitting near the woman I love on a tufted couch, sometimes I just need to write.

Poetry is my elixir.

You bleed words, you heal from them, and you love with them—with all of your might, with the wisdom from your trials and triumphs in life and love, and spilling over.



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