Beautiful Artists, Fetid Art

I have always hated poetry but idolized the poet.

I cannot say the reason, but I can count on my fingers the poems that moved me. It always struck me as a pretentious hobby that idealized suffering, as if it were something to strive for. Then there’s the other side, the side that paints the world as rainbows and sunsets. The side that speaks only of flocks of geese taking flight above a grove of pine trees whilst the water laps at the rocky shores of the lake. Idyllic. Paradise. I would never claim that life is not beautiful, but neither would I deny its claim to a fair share of suffering. But in poetry, it always seems to be either or.

Perhaps I read the wrong poetry. Or perhaps I read poetry the wrong way. Or one may say that I am simply being too general, too vague in my judgments. Dishonestly breaking poems down to the most basic of binaries to make my point. They may point out that I never reference a specific poem and use this fact to attack my veracity. They have a point. But…(!!!) I didn’t create the concept of Poetic License, I’m simply living by it.

So, suck it poetry.

Whatever the case may be, I know that I had never been moved to emotion by poetry until I was 23. It was about a road trip through blazing deserts and pouring forests. It spoke of the blinding glare of a sunset reflecting off an old car hood. And it talked about the poisonous bliss of loving someone who doesn’t love you back. Of basking in the glory of a person who would just as soon replace you with another, not that you could ever admit that to be the case. There was an appreciation for the beauty of life tied to an acknowledgment of life’s tragedies in such a delicate way that it brought me to tears.

I had hoped that reading this poem would break open the floodgates of poetry for me so that I too could experience the bliss of being enraptured by powerful prose. Alas, the only emotion other poems inspired in me was boredom. I can appreciate word choice and rhythm, but I have trouble understanding those who read poetry voraciously.

Despite my, at best, disregard for the merits of poetry, I have always loved the souls of poets. The way they look at the world. Their ability to put pen to paper and seemingly effortlessly depict their emotions using only words, the flimsiest method of showing our feelings.

Watching a poet take in the view of a park in spring or bathing in an autumnal breeze makes me feel as if I do not fully appreciate life. Every time I watch a poet whip out their notebook and write down a thought that just appeared, I wish I had that sort of motivation. Poets push me to enjoy every moment of existence that I am gifted with experiencing. They inspire me to fully investigate my feelings, leaving no stone unturned as I explore how I react to the chaos of life.

Without poets, reality would be so dull and uninspiring. Something that I would argue poetry already is.