The Possibility of Poetry

By Library Staff

Sometime, during this season of growth, why not follow that bud of thought and branch out, bloom into the possibility of poetry. Poetry is as wide-mouthed as a nest of hungry birds. Where to begin but with that squiggly line of a title whose scent reeks of earthbound adventures beckoning you to partake of depths that lie inside the lives of lines.

Again, again, the eye begins to crawl in centipede fashion left to right, right to left as poems of temper and temperature perch on the stem of an arm where fingers, much like your own, curl their comfort around a page. There are nights, O’nights when the pages, those Light and Heavy Things, Hum with Fungus Skull Eye Wing, Skinned by some Hard Love Province found, only in The Wilderness Inside Spiders.

Let us follow this thread, the trail, the one where we explore a language of poetry by partaking of the title of a book. Verily, we might find ourselves in a Landscape Yellow with Birds or In the Garden of the Bridehouse, Charming Gardeners in a Black Crow Dress currying favors with The Bees because Here, Everything is Dreaming.  Every living thing Reduced to Joy, Hum, Swoop. Yet, we must not tarry but Storm Toward Morning as The Ogre’s Wife has done asking Dear Life, dear Pedestrians, Where are the Trees Going?

When You Said No, Did You Mean Never? Never is a long time not to try to reach the root of that longing to begin your own poetic adventure. We are, after all, Incomplete Strangers, Plundered Hearts, On the Street of Divine Love as many afoot as The Hundred Grasses, every eye bright as Pinholes in the Night. Throw Yourself into the Prairie, think of The Rhizome as a Field of Broken Bones and you, as always, the Urban Tumbleweed who finally decides, at last, to Hello, the Roses and Put Your Hands In A Momentary Glory.

Yes, yes I know this is a Prelude to Bruise. But, remember this when you have a Rough Day, when The Little Edges bring on bouts of Brain Fever and you find yourself asking If I Don’t Breathe, How Do I Sleep? Companion Grasses are growing. The Earth Avails its citizens its Headwaters, Blue Horses and The Do-Over. The try once-again, start one-more-time Like a Beggar beneath The Cloud that Contained the Lightning who said Bury My Clothes, The Gorgeous Nothings beneath The Moon Before Morning. In the Rain of the Future they’ll say speak, Cadaver Speak. You know the answer, the one and only answer. It comes to those who learn How to Dance as the Roof Caves In. They know that Everytime a Knot is Undone, a God is Released.