Dead Poets?

Is poetry dead...or, are we merely dead to poetry?

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We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. Medicine, law, business, engineering these are all noble pursuits, and necessary to sustain life. But poetry beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman,

   O me, O life of the questions of these recurring,

of the endless trains of the faithless,

of cities filled with the foolish...

What good amid these O me, O life?

   Answer: that you are here.,

That life exists, and identity.

That the powerful play goes on,

and you may contribute a verse.

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as recited by Robin Williams' character

Dead Poets' Society (1989)

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I think we spend a lot of life focused on those "noble pursuits" mentioned above, but we spend the remainder of our time on ignoble pursuits that simply salve the savage beast within. IMHO, the savage beast, like a child or a clock, needs to be wound up and set to RUN!

The creative pursuits, when passively flickering in front of our eyeballs, don't do much for us due to that very passivity--sitting on the recliner or bed, watching the images somebody else has dreamed up for us to watch. Okay, I know, we're not all masterly poets, dramatists, sculptors, painters, or novelists...but, look at this for an example of happy people, out creating art and loving it!

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 I paint with words

   I follow a meter

I brush my keys

   words flying fleeter,

pictures emerge

   oft rather hazy...

and even for me

words can sound crazy.

I'll try again

   it's cheaper'n paint

and no one to tell me,

   "isn't," not "ain't"!

I paint with words

   hold still, little birds!



(Sorry to be slow--I started this as a minor tribute to Robin Williams, then company showed up and blogging took a seat way in the back of the bus. Appropriately so, but still a bit frustrating.)