nor till the poets among us can be
insolence and triviality and can present
for inspection, ‘imaginary gardens with real toads in them’, shall
– excerpt from Poetry by Marianne Moore
I haven’t always loved poetry. It’s confusing and obtuse and frequently leaves me frustrated. But I can’t quit reading it.
Because in the cadence of the words there is truth. Poetry is the fastest way to share the indescribable elements of reality without music. Those real toads are especially difficult to deal with when their hardens are imaginary.
Which is why I hardly ever share the poetry I write.
Not that I write poems that often. In fact, I can really only write poetry when I’m surprisingly happy. And the poems are never very good. (Which is another reason I hardly evershow the poems I’ve written to anyone)
But, despite all the current madness in my life currently, I’ve been writing poetry. These ones would have to be revised (which I don’t have time for), so they’ll still probably never be read, even if they weren’t so revealing. I’m just glad to be writing them in all their terrible glory.