Friday, October 5, 2007


"And what do you like to do, Lucy?"
"I like to write."
"Ah, what do you write?"

Though not quite so bland and straightforward, this exchange, in some form, has worked its way into many recent conversations. After explaining to the asker (and, perhaps, to myself), "I write poetry because [fill-in-the-blank]," I found myself wondering if I do, in fact, write poetry. What is poetry? Do I give myself too much credit in labeling every stanzaed work a poem?

Who might know the answer to this question? Why, Mr. Webster, of course.

po-et-ry (n.): 1. a: Metrical writing. b: The productions of a poet. 2: Writing that formulates a concentrated, imaginative awareness of experience in language chosen and arranged to create a specific emotional response through meaning, sound, and rhythm. 3: Something likened to poetry especially in beauty of expression.

After discovering this, I can identify with the second choice. I write with language meant to convey an emotional response. On occasion, it is concentrated and imaginative... but does this alone constitute 'productions of a poet'? Pray tell, Mr. Webster.

po-et (n.): 1: One who writes poems; a maker of verses. 2: One (as a creative artist) of great imaginative and expressive capabilities and special sensitivity to the medium.

So far, so good. Dare I inquire further?

po-em (n.): 1: A composition in verse. 2: Something suggesting a poem (as in expressiveness, lyricism, or formal grace).

The term 'poetry' is rather subjective, as I should have known - Mr. Webster always has the hardest time with abstract nouns (he offers nine options for the word 'love', to little avail). I consider my musings poetry partly by default, but partly by personal opinion. Ultimately, the label stays.

Sunday, September 30, 2007


the throbs and fumbles
within this bright red throne
upon which sit love
and peace and human virtue

without which, connection
would collapse
smiles would fade
and glows would dim

beat on, we scream,
never stopping
bring us hands to hold
and souls to match

without fail or prompt
the throbbing continues
pumping adrenaline
and pulsing spirit

feeding love and peace
and smile and glow
and hands and souls
without consent.