Day: 9 November 2020

The New Normal

Traumatized, she returned home, with her soul shattered and defeated.
Her husband welcomed her back, in the chirpy way he usually greeted.
He told her to freshen up quickly and join him in the kitchen.
That him cooking tonight didnโ€™t mean she didnโ€™t have to pitch in.
But all she wanted now was to cleanse herself with a long shower.

โ€˜I Love Idleness, Walking, Being a Flaneurโ€™

What you must understand is that poetry is not simply expressing oneself โ€“ not for me. That would seem more suited to an essay. Rather, poetry is a way of being and of seeing as if it were another sense in the way of taste or touch. And with this sense, it becomes a way of relating to life at its smallest as well as its largest. For the poet, it is every day and everywhere. It is who and how you are. Poetry is, at its fullest, a relationship. And the words are the bi-product of that relationship, that way of being. They are the conversations that you, the reader, are allowed to overhear โ€“ but they are not in and of themselves the whole thing. Birds stroke distance through the air, spiders build webs, and in the same way, poets write. The significant fact, though, is that what they write; poems are not about, they are not faint reflections, but rather, poems are, are the thing itself โ€“ as is the distance, as is the web.

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