Poetry

Carl Sandberg said, “Poetry is the opening and closing of a door leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during a moment.”

A poem is only a glimpse into what the poet sees, feels, hears, touches, thinks. It is the condensed experience, cooked down, strained. Every word exact. Often a chosen word doing duel jobs, maybe, even more. A high degree of sensitivity is in every word, no matter how simple the poem.

I find myself revisiting poetry at the times I’m struggling most with my writing. Writing poetry revitalizes my other writing. The search for the perfect, right word, gathering words, playing with words suits me better than anything else I do in writing. For me, it is like searching for the flea market treasure among the jumble of other’s trash. It is something I’ve always enjoyed—gathering, collecting, finding words.

One of my first memories—I had to have been younger than six and I was playing outside in my backyard (This was in the first house I remember—a three bedroom unit back to back with a one bedroom unit—one of the bedrooms was actually in the half of the other people’s house. Inside the closet of the one bedroom a small door opened into the other house. This was in the 50’s and the homes were built and owned by the U.S. Government.) The neighbor man who lived in the other half of our unit was working in his yard. I was one of those children that were always asking questions (still am) and I asked, “What’s your name?”

“Doug.” he answered.

“What ya doing?” nosy me, asked.

“Digging.”

I still remember laughing, thinking how funny that was. Dug (that was how my mind pictured his name), digging.

I know, I know. Not that funny. Not funny at all, but—that twist in my mind of Doug’s name still makes me smile.

Word play, different ways of looking at words, twisted the meanings, looking up all the meanings of a word—that’s what I do. I love to say words, roll them over in my mind, on my tongue, use them, gather them.

And poems are the perfect way for me to use those words, just as I do flea market finds—repurposed. For the writer it is condensing an experience or sight, feeling or thought into a few well-chosen, well-collected, well-used words. For the reader, the poet hopes it is a shiver up the spine, a cracked heart, a whispered-I feel that way too, and now, I know I am not alone.

To see what I mean go here and read the comments to read entries to the PAD Challenge. Great poems. Great poets. Great glimpses.