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THE ENIGMA OF POETRY

D. H. Parsons

 

Poetry is an enigma wrapped in a dilemma … or is it the other way around?  We try so hard to express our personal feelings in poetic phrase … but it all comes out so wrong and seems so inadequate.

 

Poetry is a lost Art. To be frank, I’m not sure it ever was an Art to begin with –

just because society labels something an “Art” doesn’t make it so.  But don’t ruffle your feathers at that statement because I will explain what I mean in the body of this article.

 

And this is hard to explain… but every time something romantic slams me between the eyes I try to relate the experience in poetry … most of the time.  Unfortunately, “most of the time,” it comes out wrong.

 

I hesitate to allow anyone to read my poetry because – as is shallow human nature – they will take it in a literal vein and make a soap opera out of it. And 99% of their interpretations are not merely incorrect, they are pathetically … PATHETICALLY … immature in the scope of all things evolutionary.

 

Poetry is meaningless without the meaning behind the poetry.  If you don’t experience the experience firsthand, it’s very difficult for you to be moved by a poem written by someone else.

 

Poems are personal statements of life experiences that … well … are personal.  Poetry is a relating of the private moments in our lives that we probably should never share with anyone we know.  But we do.  And most of the time we regret having done so.

 

A few of the poems I have written over the years have been some of the most embarrassing moments of my life; yet, they are the most honest portrayals of the hidden emotion of my subconscious mind.

 

Does this make sense? (In a Metaphysical sense?)

 

It makes sense to me … and it doesn’t (all at the same time) because deeper emotions never make sense.  And that’s the way it should be.  So writing poems about our emotions is a futile task because they will never be accurate.

 

Poems are just “touches” … simple moments when we touch a woman’s hand … when another being captivates you immediately during a conversation.  It becomes a memory … an immediate memory.  And this is the stuff of poetry.

 

 

I have been asked to include some of my poetry on the B-P I website – perhaps as a regular feature - and I have agreed to do so.  I am reluctant to do so, however, for all of the reasons given above.  But … someone has to be the first to kick off what I hope will be a regular feature of this site:  poetry sent in by our readers.  So … if you have a poetic Muse who just won’t leave you alone, send in a poem or two.  Every so often we will choose a half dozen or so and print them free of charge. They will have to be reviewed before printing, and they must come up to the standards of the Institute: poems of deeper reflection; no profanity; no profane sexual imagery; thoughtful poems reflecting the poet’s own Soul; poems of a Metaphysical nature.  Romance poetry of a higher grade (i.e. Keats, Tennyson, Shelley, etc.) will be considered, but “Roses are red, violets are blue …” type poetry will not.

 

I have been writing poetry for nearly fifty years, and I have a large number of poems to draw from.   I will occasionally place a poem or two on these pages for (hopefully) your enjoyment.  Most of my poems are untitled – I’ve just always felt that putting titles on poems was kind of unnecessary.  The reader should draw from the poem what they need to draw. I will place the date of when I wrote the poem at the end of each.  Here is a poem I wrote in 1982:

 

 

the winter street is lonely

devoid of green leaves and shimmering heat

 

depressed barren cold

In blues and greys

 

wet slick asphalt

walks hard and uneven beneath moving feet

 

headlights

auto headlights in the rain

reflect from

mirrored marionette faces

dripping

scurrying

hastening

to where they must go and do not wish to be

 

gutter water pours

dead leaves flatten on the sidewalk

sounds have ceased

with too many private thoughts to stop them

 

a string of smoke escapes

from the pipe

the only warmth near the winter street

 

 

 

 

1948

good year for wine

bad year for blind dates

 

women didn’t exist

neither did philosophy

 

war torn fields of Kansas

cow wars

wheat wars

drought wars

 

no visions of college degrees

or girls

til I was seven weeks old

 

had a tin of english tobacco shoved down my throat

by a lady with shiny fake jewelry

and I liked it

 

daily bread

and a tree house

and prairie dust

made me pragmatic

even though I couldn’t walk yet.

(written 15 July 1982)

 

 

 

 

 

single light bulb darkness.  yellow hue cast.  anytime.

any place.  any mood.

 

the

air is thick with memories and emotion.  how I love the past.

if I could pick and choose experiences to relive I would.

 

… that one cold night in monterrey when we all walked from

the house to the market … walking slowly … drunk on the

cold ocean air.

inebriation.

celebration.

 

I think it was winter then. and the lights of the bay sparkled

on the water.  so romantic.  and we bought a gallon of red

mountain burgundy to  bring back to the house … bungalow on

the beach.

 

drank all night with rod mckuen

(written 26 July 1968)