says a man struck with spontaneous interest,
interest he has surely attached intellectual power to.
“Define poetry,” he repeats with passive demand.
“Define the medium you so willingly cling to—
the style which so proudly sits atop your meaningless
and pretentious
pedestal of artistic beauty.
Define the form you bow to
solemn night after solemn night—
the hidden hopes of bound immortality which rise
from splotches of ink that stain your skin.
Define the carnal desire to write partial stories and images
disguised as art—
praised only by fellow poets,
read only by fellow poets
and understood only by fellow poets.
Go ahead and smear your abstract bullshit reasons
across every inch of my mental den—
I’ll eagerly await the inescapable moment
in which I dismantle your scripted,
vague attempt at the explanation I seek.”
“Poetry is whatever the hell I want it to be.
Tonight it is this;
the Devil’s advocate,
a reflection upon an idea I love and understand,
an idea I have chosen to dissect
but one I rarely choose to define.
Sure—my answer evades strong labels
and sought-after specifics.
Poetry isn’t simply fiction,
nor is it a simple blend of honest societal reflections
surrounded by flowery imagery.
I have my definition of poetry
and it fancies change
just as we humans fancy change.
And with the completion of each new poem
my approach
and my goal
and my love alters slightly,
riding the swift winds of transformation.
Poetry is mine to sculpt because I hold the clay
between my unrelenting fingers.
Others may feel the inability
or lack of desire
to toy with the “sacred” concept of Poetry.
I don’t consider them a threat
and never will.
I only check my rear-view for the ones
who no longer question dedication,
the ones who feed their hunger
because they must.
Those are the fingers I fear…
but have yet to meet.”
The man’s response is entirely up to you
because I see it as forever irrelevant.
Art is what you make of it,
so I recommend you cozy up to the idea
of being your biggest fan for a while.
Pay little mind to those who try to tear you down,
for there will be many.
Justifying it as jealousy is an arrogant remedy
but often effective and true.
Failing to turn a profit will never break my spirit,
no matter how baffling the business minds find it.
I use rejection letters as bookmarks
because in my mind
they mistakenly passed on good poetry.
