Poetry Ain't Gentle
It is on life support though (audio included)
For a more atmospheric experience, try the audio version of this essay❤️
Dante’s Inferno
Adrienne Rich’s Living In Sin
Ellen Hopkins’ Crank
Are not gentle poems. They do not run off the page, like prose. Phyllis Wheatly had an uncommon education as an enslaved person. Her soul lives on in verses that don’t run across the page. King David’s psalms of love, pain, and the fright of running from his enemies—did not run as far as he did.
“Spinal and swim bladder issues*
They are writing me off as the devil’s invention
These poets could have written essays about their life. They could have adhered to strict grammar codes and diction, created books about finding the tenth circle of hell or finding their daughter strung out, or lying in bed with the milkman. They could have just…told us a story. Make it literary. Make it long. Make it into a newspaper.
No.
They chose to give our eyes a break and turn their speaker’s lives into upside down verses, enjambed lines and block stanzas. Onomatopoeia and crisp, smashed words that do not belong together—suddenly belong together.
I like when you gossip,*
It tells on your soul
I don’t know who said poetry is flowery or dead. (I may have said this), but I understand why someone would think so. Poetry is a beautiful dance but when left to chance, it can be free, or blank, or a haiku and it is a language we say we don’t understand, but who understands a soul language but the soul?
When I read a poem, I may not understand what the speaker is trying to allude to, but the feeling I am left with is pure:
Had you entered that afternoon
you would have thought you saw a man
planting something in a boy’s palm,
a silver tear, a tiny flame.(From “The Gift” by Li Young Lee)
Poetry is a living fire, but poetry is still on life support.
Every day, I sweat at the cauldron of papers. Some words burn through my fingertips- turning to black ash until I correct, set it in the right corners. Other times, I speak the word and it engulfs my throat in flames of truth and it will not be an essay. It is not pretty—
It’s poetry.
*The poems that did not have titles, are mine. From my book, Rumors of Ouroboros.
Thank you for reading! Your giving my words a chance means worlds to me. I do this for me. I do this for you—the reader. The poetry reader. Who still takes Poetry by the hand and wonder how is it that this goddess is still around in our hearts?
If you so choose (and it is completely up to you), feel free to tip me. Your donations help this struggling writer so she can keep typing. Keep eating. Keep her domicile.