Okay, I wasn’t going to reblog anymore, but when I stumbled across this post written by my favorite dinosaur, I just couldn’t resist. I just discovered a new poet today–David Whyte–and thoughts of Mary Oliver, Marie Howe, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Carolyn Forche all suddenly began dancing in my brain. I don’t think i could live without poetry. Once, in a book by Mary Stewart (Nine Coaches Waiting) the narrator mentioned that “daddy was right, poetry is awfully good material to think with.” I think my dinosaur (Rara) is spot on here. (Love you for this, Rara!)
Sometimes people like to horrify me by saying they don’t like poetry. When I respond, I try to school my facial expression into the accepting smile of Oprah on a good day.
Mostly, though, I’m baffled.
Poetry defines a vast stretch of the written word. Sometimes it’s meant to rhyme, sometimes it’s meant to be spoken, sometimes it tackles serious issues, and sometimes it delves into nothing more important than the lack of passes at girls who wear glasses.
Poetry is everywhere. It’s the heart of the song that you say is the heart of you. It’s the lyrical meanderings of a hobbit named Bilbo, and the stark call to arms of a soap maker named Tyler. It is the title of a painting that moves you to tears and the inscription on your wedding ring. It is folded gently into our holiest of books and our most precious of…
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