Poetry is the Rhythmical Creation of Beauty in Words.
Edgar Allan Poe
Need anything more truly be said? And yet, since I have the inclination to natter, I shall attempt to agree, poetically.
And by agreeing to say that there is nothing worth saying that could ever be said, even in the starkest form, that is not, by some measure and in the generalist terms, some form of poetic entrancement; for if, in speaking or writing, we utter anything at all worth saying, it shall be remembered; and if something is remembered, it can be considered remarkable enough to have made remembrance worthwhile, which leads one to the eventual conclusion that, if it is worthwhile to be recollected, there must be some form or nature in it that catches the imagination, sparks the well-spring of contemplation or illuminates musings and that, being colourfully or creatively inspired is, in its most basic state, a creation of beautiful words that should be deemed poetry.
(excuse me while I gasp for breath!)
Having said as much, of course the opposite is also true and begs to be argued: that the inestimably horrible, atrocious and staggeringly inane is also imprinted upon our minds in a similar fashion as the most lovely sonnet or passing fair soliloquy and, to follow this particular train of rationale to its logical yet absurd conclusion, must therefore also be considered a form of poetry; although some (including myself) would vehemently argue that such assaults on the psyche are hardly worthy of the title, yet to be fair and even-handed it must be stipulated.
(Ok I promise, no more caffeine for me!)
Alas, alack for me, and all those who call themselves Poet, to be mixed with such baser matter that I (and perhaps you as well) would never, willingly, undertake to read or promote; nevertheless, where there is one there is always the other. Where there is Light, there is dark. Where there is Good, there is also Bad. (Where there is Chocolate, there is also Vanilla.) And although some may argue that one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter (with which I should in most cases concur) I cannot in good conscience agree with the subsequent postulation that all poetry, despite its thematic structure or outpouring is, by its very nature, Beauty in Words.
Where does that leave us then? You may ask with that quizzical expression, yet again, upon your face? (which does tend to happen a lot when I start blathering on)
I return to Poe, master (as I see it) of both sides of the poetic coin, who said: Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality. Edgar Allan Poe
And thus, by saying that there is always Light and Dark, Right and Wrong, Beauty and Ugliness, is to say there is, or at least should be, Balance in everything. But to let one side of the coin rule the other, to let the darkness overshadow the light, or to let the atrocities to over rule the kindness is to live out of joint, which bring me to Hamlet (though it may have seemed you might escape that under the circumstances) who said: “Time is out of joint. O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right.”
And therein lies the paradox, or at least, the challenge. Do I Shine my Light or do I snuff it out in support of darkness? Do I Stand on the mountaintop and extol Liberty or do I hide in the safety of my home and shake my head ruefully? Do I proclaim Beauty in my Art with every fiber of my being, or do I bow to the pressure of sales, rating, and stats, producing something other than what would shimmer and glimmer, touch lives and speak quietly to hearts? It is a choice worth considering and a decision well worth making, though some may disagree with my logic and call me as mad as some named (or still name) Hamlet.
Beautiful Original Artwork of Hades and Persephone by: *sandara at Deviantart.com