Poetry is Poetry

 

In the beauty of lines,  

I found solace—  

Not deep comfort,  

Not overflowing joy,  

But just enough  

To keep me going.

"Poetry is dry,"  

They say.  

And yes, I know—  

Because many don't understand  

The depth from which these lines call to me.

How I’m free to offend English,  

Yet still stand justified  

In the court of grammar.  

Poetic license—  

My faithful lawyer,  

Defending me  

Before an honourable judge  

Trying to find fault,  

While Literature itself  

Stands as my witness.

How do I explain  

That I once said,  

“He’s beautiful,”  

Knowing full well  

“Beautiful” is for the female folk,  

And what I spoke of  

Wasn’t human—  

Nor animate—  

But inanimate?

Or when I pleaded with the sun  

To look with pity upon me,  

Knowing it has no eyes—  

No mind—  

But only heat,  

And my skin  

Was pouring sweat  

Like a broken tap  

In a forgotten bathroom.

What more can I say  

To describe the beauty of poetry?  

If not to simply say:  

Poetry is Poetry.

And Poetry is Beautiful.

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