A friend wrote a poem so beautiful it made me want to stop writing altogether because, and I’ll quote myself, “how could I write anything with as much gravitas as these twenty lines?”
What is it about poetry that takes all the unspooling nature of human thought and emotion, that I write down in half non-sensical paragraphs and unending pages, and distills it into a metre, enjambes its thought over two lines, and delivers a gut punch with the last three stressed syllables?
I saw my friend read their poem in a pub. I was three beers deep, and anxious about another friend’s all too closeness, and the moroseness of the evening was met by the hammer tetrameter, and the power of the iambic throb in my limbic system; is this heartbeat or…?
Out into the November air, the street lamps curled like talons or gnomic fishing rods waiting to ensnare a passerby. I am ensnared in the net of my own anxiousness, and my friend is talking with our friends about somebody else’s trousers, and how’s about going back to someone else’s place for a night cap, and how’s about going back inside.
A friend wrote a poem so beautiful I felt like crying because, and I’ll quote myself, “what’s the point in dry eyes if they don’t see the world that way”
A friend wrote a poem so beautiful I felt like dying because, and I’ll quote myself, “what’s the point in wide eyes if they don’t see the world at all.”