Re: 11/18/07 Poem

I’m no poet – just a man. Wait, that was pretty poetic. Maybe I am a poet?

As a poet, I see the world a little differently. Actually, that’s not true. Like most people, I see what I want to see. But there are those select few who do see the world through an uncommon lens. What I mean is that there are people who have the innate ability to find the beauty and meaning in everything they see. In everything they touch. They are the true poets.

Now I’m not going to pretend that I have the understanding or even general wherewithal to define “poetry,” but I will venture to say that poetry is predicated on taking our everyday language and making it special. In short, taking the ordinary and making it extraordinary. This is but an extension of finding the beauty and the meaning in things.

Sure, Poe’s The Raven or Blake’s Mad Song is not about beauty per se. I don’t assert that all poetry is about the lighter side of life. The darkness has inspired man to an equal degree. But even in the saddest lines of the darkest poem, one can find a quest for meaning, and that is the key.

She is a poet. She finds my meaning.

My feelings for her resonate like the stars at dawn,
Even absent clear sight, they are never truly gone.

- Me

I hear my voice echo through this empty Hall. My ears pierce through the sound, waiting for a reply.