Poetry is the philanthropy of the illuminated mind to the dulled wits of those immured in the tragedy of mundanity. —Aero Gantz of Pampa City.
Poetry is the truest literary, spoken and visualized form of communication. Whether sonnet, haiku or that apex of wit, the limerick. Only the poet can fully immerse themselves in the creative world, from ordering in rhyme at a restaurant to wearing the beret required by Our Muse. Poetry must flow throw your veins, and serve as your soul’s breath. Poets give us words like these noble verses about the Magdalene’s eyes:
Two walking baths; two weeping motions;
Portable, and compendious oceans.
Narrative is the realm of the banal, the pedantic halfwit who thinks himself wise, yet lacks meter and rhyme. Naked prose is harsh, crude and uninspiring, without the adornment offered by poetic figures. True masterpieces speak the language of poetry even when clothed in prose:
Her cheeks were almost as red as her hair already, like red Delicious apples under green leaves which were her eyes and the dark pupils were like little curled up caterpillars in the middle—Travis Tea
Poetry speaks to and from the soul. It tickles and caresses the mind as one mulls over the next word or phrase to imbue the reader with a kaleidoscope of images that flow from each precious verse. Only the poet can engender true rapture in the reader, such that
My ear is open like a greedy shark,
To catch the tunings of a voice divine.
All writing is poetic, to the truly sensitive soul. Never in the history of mankind ever has there ever been a more perfect, more inspiring or more nobler form of communication than poetry. One must aspire to exalt the noble art to its highest incarnation; to bring joy and bliss to the world with wit, rhyme and the perfection of the 5/7/5 haiku, or, in the highest form of poetic art, the limerick.
Pity those unable to grasp and embrace the rich visual beauty of the spoken sonnet. Mourn the barren souls of those bereft of the lyrical gift of rhyme. Know that deep down frankly, you are more perfect, more better and more refined than the mouth-breathing, knuckle dragger who hears a couplet and thinks, that’s it. Buffoons.
If you have so earth-creeping a mind that it cannot lift itself up to look to the sky of poetry . . . thus much curse I must send you, in the behalf of all poets, that while you live, you live in love, and never get favour for lacking skill of a sonnet; and, when you die, your memory die from the earth for want of an epitaph.
Happy April 1. Now go read some good poetry in honor of National Poetry Month.