Rereading my few posts from more or less a year ago isn't as embarrassing as I thought it would have been. I forgot that even before I started college, I had started writing poetically; not poetry yet, just poetically.
I don't know when I will actually start writing "poetry".
Since then I have really gotten into poetry, so this blog will take a new direction, as a home for things I write. Be it banal, frivolous, somber, or anal, I don't mind praise or criticism, just no accusations of pretension. Writing is a tool for myself, and myself primarily. It will not affect how I act towards others in the world, since I believe poetry is a preexisting outlook on life, a blik, a part of me from the beginning.
Seriously, I would love it if you to talked to me.
Which brings me to wonder, what is poetry?... At dinner tonight I started thinking about what poetry is, and the only way I could answer that was in poetic thought; useless, no? Manifesto:
"Poets are the photographers of invisible things. Blame the cracked lens or the perverted eye that pushes a poet in pursuit of the unseen, but a poet will never be happy with a still-life in focus--apples and oranges splayed out on a cherrywood table, lazing like underwear models--no, this pornography will not do. And so, in hopeful pursuit, every image, if lucky, exposes a blurry outline: a toenail of Truth, a patella of Meaning, the areola of Desire. Always the images zoomed-in too close, subject too large, receding out of frame, or simply invisible, a blurred outline before unfocused lens...; but reader, celebrate this: in these blurs is poetry--and where poets do their work--smudging, unsmudging, furious and eternal."
1:39 AM--June 2nd, Wednesday, 2010
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