Status: So tired, and yet – work beckons.
In the interests of getting back to some really complicated notes on conversational implicature, I shall keep this post pretty short.
Poetry is a form of creative expression that I’m not too familiar with. While I do write poetry, I maintain that my writing is far stronger than my poetry. I am by no means a bereft person – my mind works in whole sentences, and that tends to bleed into my writing. A friend of mine, whom had read some of my poetry, tells me that my poetry reads like prose. Which of course, isn’t a bad thing – I like that. But my point is: I’m not a poetry type of person.
My general thoughts on poetry are this: I love the style and form of a poem – those who work within the constraints of form to achieve beauty are those who gain the most of my respect. I love rhyme scheme, I love meter, I love dazzling imagery, I love beautiful metaphors.
But most of all, I think one of the most interesting things about poetry is that it is able to pack so much into a few lines. In many ways, poetry sustains the imagination through the lines, building up things from the barest of details, yet leaving you satiated.
Poetry, to me, is rather much like a study in construction and architecture. A good poem considers every word and builds up the mood from the form. While in writing, my belief is that you have a lot more space to play with, and therefore can be more loose in your words (there is after all, a limit to how much a reader can take in before they give up), poetry doesn’t have that luxury. Poetry packs density like sardines into a tin – and that is one of the most admirable parts of a poem.
Of course, I do believe that poetry can come in all forms and sizes, but hey — this post is just an opinion piece, and I should end off before I get too into the idea of writing a ten thousand word poem right now.
To end off – a poem I wrote, a rather long time ago.
Cast aside once novelty wears
Beware, heart of mine. Beware!
Shut yourself behind closed doors and
Let no one in ne’ermore.
There is no prize for rotten judgement,
In fact, there is none at all.
So beware Heart, beware ‘gainst Love,
Beware the lying, silver-tongued dove.
Hide your soul, hide the joy you feel.
Shroud it behind a gauzy veil.
Give no one the key to your heart.
Do not be stung by fiery darts.
I hope you don’t get hurt like me,
And so I hope you will see.
This key is yours, as is the veil.
Choose wisely what you want to feel.