I have a love hate relationship with poetry. I have written poetry most of my life. And I truly am thankful for this method of writing. But it is hard to read poetry. Oh, maybe not Emily, or Robert Burns, or Stevenson, but there are good poems that are hard to read. Even for those who love them. I *think* I might know just a little of the reason why. And the following poem talks about it.
Poetry demands that we slow down a minute. And in our headlong age, this is sometimes a monumental task. We are trained to get to the bottom line. Poems meander. Sometimes the best line, is right in the middle! They demand a slower pace than we are used to and we chomp at the bit. But there is a magic in a poem that no other form of writing contains. One has to have discipline to find it.
So with apologies :
Those Annoying Poems
Poems are the whispers of the universe.
The quiet breath of awe that goes so oft unnoticed
In the blazing glare of the cacophonous world.
They make us impatient with their nuance
And we chafe at their shy recitations
Get to the point! our logical mind demands.
But how does one shout at a sunset,
Describe an unexpected epiphany,
Or demand logic from a freefall of emotion ?
These things are one step away from silence.
Where no word can be uttered at all.
This is our task, to give words to the ineffable.
Be patient, oh reader, even in this headlong age,
Even in chaos, stop and find beauty
Take just one moment, listen for the whispers.
The still small voice . . .
may be the voice of God.