I had hoped these wax wings
would have lifted me
at least a little.”
– Cameron Lucente
If the eyes are windows to the soul, perhaps poetry is both key and doorway. The geometrics of the soul are an elusive, ever-shifting labyrinth and undeniably difficult to navigate. Yet, in some rare instances during the word-vomit of vocabulary, there are moments of malformed reprieve; for a moment, in the rawness of expression, ugly and misshapen, one can truly feel the soul.
“Blessed be the flood
that brings forth the garden
Blessed be the people who have left me undone
and still reaching.”
– Brenna Twohy
As expected, poetry is my beloved object. To simplify the appreciation into any one single poem would be unfair to the artform as a whole. Thus, the very concept of poeticism is thus presented before you, reader– a small, rather measly archive of some especially brilliant pieces of spoken and written literature.
“I go to cry and each tear turns to steam.”
– Donte Collins
The beautiful object– or, suppose the beautiful concept– of course inspires no unsettlingly strange eroticism. Instead, poetics drive inspiration itself– good, especially raw poetry demands reflection.
“How do we forgive ourselves
for all the things we did not become?”
– Doc Luben
Good poetry demands writing, a ritual offering to a fickle god. When a heart is seen, the heart also needs to see– thus, when I am most struck by poetry, I desire to strike with poetry until there are no words left to be said.
“When you’re dumb
enough for long enough, you’re gonna meet someone
too smart to love you, and they’re gonna love you
anyway, and it’s gonna go so poorly.”
– Neil Hilborn