PoetryAccording toGwendolyn MacEwan

One of these days after my thousandth poetry reading I’m going to answer The Question right. 

The question is Why Do You Write. 

Every time I hear The Question I get this purple blur in front of my eyes, and I fear I will fall down frothing at the mouth and spewing forth saliva and mixed metaphors. 

You can study it if you want, I’m just the one who gets to do it; or, 

Don’t ask me I just work here. 

You know the answer and still I have to say it: 

Poetry has nothing to do with poetry, Poetry is how the air goes green before thunder, why you live and how you bleed, and 

The sound you make or don’t make when you die.“You Can Study It If You Want To” (1987)

PoetryReally? Why?

What is this thing?

a form of literary artBecause of this fact, we can only

guess what the author is trying to say (we have NO way of actually knowing!)

We often place our own emotions into the art

language is used for its aesthetic (beauty) qualities in addition to, or in lieu of, its apparent meaning

What is this thing?

We often think that poetry was made “famous” by a bunch of dead guysShakespeare, Dylan Thomas, T.S.

Elliot, Francis Bacon, William Carlos Williams

This is one of the reasons why poetry is thought of as a high-brow subject that we can’t truly understandHow can we if they are dead??

Apparently, this is a “masterwork”so much dependsupon a red wheelbarrow glazed with rainwater beside the whitechickens.

William Carlos Williams (1923)

And so is this…

In a Station of the Metro

The apparition of these faces in the crowd; Petals on a wet, black bough

Ezra Pound (1913)

What is this thing?

We may also think about cheesy Hallmark cards“Roses are red, violets are blue”

This cards is made for a friend like you.”

This could be why we think of poetry as goofy, a joke After reading many cards over the

years, I can fully understand why!!

Here’s the thing…

However we think of poetry (+/-), we are surrounded by poetry all of the time

Every one of us enjoys poetry

Poetry is, in fact, attainable

Read ThisLet me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments, love is not loveWhich alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove.O no, it is an ever fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;It is the star to every wand'ring bark,

Whose worth's unknown although his height be taken.

Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeksWithin his bending sickle's compass come,

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,But bears it out even to the edge of doom:

If this be error and upon me proved,I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

And compare it to this…I was left to my own devices

Many days fell away with nothing to show And the walls kept tumbling down

In the city that we loveGreat clouds roll over the hillsBringing darkness from above

 But if you close your eyes,Does it almost feel like nothing has changed at all?

But if you close your eyes,Does it almost feel like you’ve been here before?We were caught up and lost in all of our voices

In your pose as the dust settled around us

Or this…

When the days are coldAnd the cards all foldAnd the saints we seeAre all made of goldWhen your dreams all failAnd the ones we hailAre the worst of allAnd the blood’s run stale

At the curtain’s callIt’s the last of allWhen the lights fade outAll the sinners crawlSo they dug your graveAnd the masqueradeWill come calling outAt the mess you made

They say it’s what you makeI say it’s up to fateIt’s woven in my soulI need to let you goYour eyes, they shine so brightI wanna save that lightI can’t escape this nowUnless you show me how

And this…Now and then I think of when we were together

Like when you said you felt so happy you could dieTold myself that you were right for me

But felt so lonely in your companyBut that was love and it's an ache I still remember

You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadnessLike resignation to the end, always the end

So when we found that we could not make senseWell you said that we would still be friends

But I'll admit that I was glad it was over

But you didn't have to cut me offMake out like it never happened and that we were nothing

And I don't even need your loveBut you treat me like a stranger and that feels so rough

No you didn't have to stoop so lowHave your friends collect your records and then change your number

I guess that I don't need that thoughNow you're just somebody that I used to know

So…

Is poetry as inaccessible as we often think?

Or, are we psyching ourselves out and making it harder for ourselves?