Eeek! Poetry. Hold on to your hats, boys and girls, as we plunge into an analysis of this complex art.
Poetry has always intimidated me. It’s such a complex and detailed art, I sincerely doubt my abilities in doing it justice and much less in ever mastering it. There it looms in front of me like an insurmountable mountain, and here am I cowering in its shadow.
Consider poetry’s different components: meter consisting of feet plus rhyme of which exist many variations—and don’t forget meaning which is primary. To expertly convey your immaterial ideas, emotions, hopes, and dreams onto paper is complicated enough. Imagine adding on top of that two whole different layers! A poet does not choose words merely on their ability to communicate a specific meaning. No, he examines their structure: how many syllables does this word contain and which of those syllables are accentuated—oh wait, does this rhyme with the last word of my previous line? Besides going through this process, he still filters words based on their appropriateness depending on the poem’s style. Honestly, I hold poets in the highest regard as individuals reaching a summit of artistic expression.
Yet, poetry not only displays complexity but also beauty. I love reading out loud sections of prose which showcase precious words like “precocious” or “kerfuffle.” Poetry takes a different spin on exhibiting glorious words: one after another, they slip off the tongue in alliteration, or two lines marry when their end words harmonize. Moreover, the delicate structure of poetry simply imprints ideas onto the reader’s mind in a completely different way: somehow touching both the physical and imaginary world, it carries you off into dream land more readily than regular prose.
Let me reiterate: I am the lowliest vestige of a poet. Nevertheless, I have, on rare occasions, bent myself to the task of crafting a poem—or at least an extremely vague likeness of one. Here follows my favorite to ever take form:
The veil torn away,
Light flooding in,
Gates open wide,
Colors I’ve never seen,
Mountains, woods, and glens,
Streams with beds of gems–
Run through them all
On wings of wind
Leap into the sky,
I will harvest the stars,
Cradle the moon in my arms
In His presence,
By His side,
Listen to His voice,
Look into His eyes,
Mysteries untold across the skies,
I can’t say this poem of mine displays mastery of meter and rhyme, which are practically nonexistent in my case. No, the hope expressed in the poem endears it to me. The vision of an eternity in paradise has dwelt in my heart for a couple years now: poetry gave me an outlet to express my broken and imperfect picture of eternal life through simple, sweet lines—managing, still, to convey the beauty beyond the brokenness.
I may in a way fear poetry, but that’s only because I appreciate it so much: poetry possesses that singular power of fashioning our thoughts into intricate beauty.