Sonnet for a Saturday

No, I'm not going to write one and this gem of Ginsberg's isn't a sonnet, either, but I liked the alliteration for the title of this entry.

I wrote some poetry, of course, when I was young and filled with angst and self-loathing. While those remain, the poetry didn't because I convinced myself I don't have much talent in creating any. Still, I've always reserved a part of my life for poetry, one which I return to fairly frequently.

The thing about poetry is that it slows me down. Unlike the web pages that are so popular now, reading poetry takes time. You can't skim poetry, can't jump stanzas or skip to the end to see how it turns out. To appreciate poetry, you have to read every word, digest them, roll them across you mind and savor their selection and placement. Poetry, I believe, isn't written to convey a thought or idea as much as a feeling or sensation. The poet, the ones I like, anyway, use words primarily as a means to create in my mind a particular attitude. The words are the instruments the poet uses to make my mind feel what she or he is feeling more than having strong intrinsic value.

"I'm feeling this," the poet seems to be saying, "and by using these particular words, in this particular order, I can make you feel the same."

Even though I no longer even try to write poetry, I still take the time to read it. Sometimes, it's true, I have to force myself to take that time, but I always feel better after doing so. I cannot help but have my mind, attitude, and outlook changed by reading good poetry, and I can even study it and see how important words are. The choices the poet needs to make are far beyond my ability to mimic, but my appreciation for the language and how much fuller and richer it can be when handled well by someone who knows what he or she is doing gives me hope and inspiration.

You betcha, it does.