I
Seek for poetry
in the crooked lines of
cars
that harass the streets
day in
day out, and
you will fail
because
poetry is dead.
I run over it one more
time
to ensure its death, so
that it will
finally stop spreading
fear towards
everything that is not
beautiful,
everything that does not
bring us to tears.
There is no place for
poetry in
a city reigned by those
who
do not know how
to see
in and through their own
darkness.
II
If announcing the death
of poetry is the only way to make life possible for it again, we must, by all
means, scream at the top of our lungs: “POETRY IS DEAD!” Because if we keep
pretending to nurture poetry by using it as an instrument to play the music of
our denials and naivety, we might as well pull the trigger.
So long as we continue
to impose our vulnerability, or even our idea
of vulnerability, onto poetry, we will not be able to move forward. We
should not turn to poetry because we refuse to face the demons of our demons.
Poetry is neither a trashcan nor a safe haven. It is not a vessel for
delusions. Poetry is not, and never has been, afraid of the truth and its array
of flavours. Poetry is incapable of feeling, of admiring its own reflection, of
expressing itself, of interpreting itself, of understanding itself, of doubting
itself, of kissing passionately, of killing.
Poetry, on its own, is
nothing. But so are we. Without the truths that constantly demand for our
acceptance and resistance, we are nothing.
III
We always speak of
language as if it were the sole cure to our individual or collective confusion
and ignorance. But look at how many misunderstandings continue to occur because
of language—or rather, because of our limited understanding of it. It is an
irony that the most complex human invention is also that one that further
complicates human interaction, with only sporadic instances of clarity.
Jack Gilbert wrote, “How
astonishing it is that language can almost mean, and / frightening that it does
not quite,” (“The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart” 1-2). Language, like every
other man-made innovation, is imperfect. It is incompatible with the boundaries
of perfection. But this seemingly disappointing element is also its essence—one
that reveals language’s striking similarity with poetry. Poetry, like language,
also defies finality and the Absolute. Both have gaps—not “missing pieces”—that are not only built into their design, but
also define their neglected purpose.
These gaps are empty spaces—spaces inhabited by nothing—that actually contribute to a possible wholeness: the possibility of true understanding. Language and poetry have the capacity to fill with gaps.
IV
Poetry, in complete isolation, is nothing. But the moment we stop treating it as if it came out of thin air, it will become more than lines of tired metaphors and emotional excess. It exists between and within the details of our material reality that, whether we like it or not, are not and cannot always be beautiful. Poetry emerges from the struggles of life as well as the struggles of language. The poet’s main responsibility lies in articulating those struggles despite the challenges posed by language. Poetry does not need to be fabricated, but it must be developed in a manner that leaves it unscathed by expectation, romanticization and denial.
Poetry, in complete isolation, is nothing. But the moment we stop treating it as if it came out of thin air, it will become more than lines of tired metaphors and emotional excess. It exists between and within the details of our material reality that, whether we like it or not, are not and cannot always be beautiful. Poetry emerges from the struggles of life as well as the struggles of language. The poet’s main responsibility lies in articulating those struggles despite the challenges posed by language. Poetry does not need to be fabricated, but it must be developed in a manner that leaves it unscathed by expectation, romanticization and denial.
V
Searching for beauty and
perfection where they do not exist only shows a desperate need to escape
reality, to turn a blind eye to the reality of things in their glorious
insignificance. One cannot squeeze a rock in order to get a fresh glass of
juice. There is no use in poeticizing our surroundings if we must sacrifice our
ability and willingness to distinguish between what we wish were true, what is
true, and what is true but continues to stifle us, and therefore needs to be
changed.
Until we dare to
determine a realistic starting point, the only part of poetry we deserve is its
death.
*The first version of this piece was
published under a pen
name.