A Poet Will Pull Me Up
Poetry is like art, because it is art.
One beholder may not understand my poem, may not “get it”, may not consider it an art form at all.
Another beholder might be stunned by it.
Because it is too angry
Or too sad or
Too enthusiastic
Or too
Something.
How we receive any kind of art has to do with our life experiences, what has gone on before,
Our hopes, our dreams, and whether or not we can relate.
Some of us are fairly new to this world, others are experienced, influential, admired, stroked, and puffed up. Seasoned.
Some try to form a new movement, not unlike the Dada art movement of the twentieth century, which
Intended art should be ugly, weird, and in every way possible, the opposite of what had been considered art prior to the Dada movement.
People paint because they cannot not paint. That was me for about four years. Now I write because I cannot not write. Poetry was a word that popped into my consciousness before I really thought about
What it was – before I knew, really.
I am not sure I fully understand what it is yet, and I have been writing a bunch of them for six months.
Feeling satisfied, feeding my soul, listening to words bounce around my aura is enough for now.
When I need more I will reach out, and a poet will pull me up into the poets’ cloud.
If I do not know anything else, I know this.
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