Sunday, February 12, 2012

Bound to the boundless

There’s this notion that poetry is dead.  I don’t believe that it is dead.  I believe it’s just been swept up under the cloth in the breadbasket, left for stale crumbs and pigeon food.  People are starved for the stuff but have forgotten its existence.  One bite might be enough to nourish these underprivileged, unaware masses for a decade, but it is not enough.   And what of those who feast from it regularly…. Made to feel alien by the rest of humanity?  Undeserving of the riches they share and fight for, but un-wanting of them as well.

When you think about how tightly woven poetry and philosophy are you  can easily take a quick glance around to see why it has not got the first chance at holding a tight grip over these lost and lonely people.  Belief is easier, and belief comes with it’s own set standards for wordly and worldly appreciation.  Anything that might cross over the bounds is considered unworthy.
My framework is constructed so that everything that begins to creep beyond traditional boundaries is the start of worth.  Of meaning.  Of exploration.  Of imagination.  Creep away, for that is where you’ll find the true substance of life and living.  Of existential crisises boiling to a head and frothing over the pot to evaporate on the burners below.  That’s where it just begins to get good.
I'm looking forward to the warmer waters of the gulf.  Cradled by the boundlessness of it I am in every moment, but that soothing gentle rock can not be simply imagined, it must be felt and carried, refreshed by reality at least annually ... for there is where I find my most genuine poetry. 

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