Poetry can only be itself when there is
Magick afoot. If One reads it, and does
Not instantaneously have to ponder on
Its deepest meaning, then it is not Poetry.
If you read it and a sense of relief does
Not immediately overtake your being,
Then it is not poetry. Relief specifically
Related to becoming clear on wondering
Whether there exists another Human
That simply gets it; walking through Life
In a constant state of perplexity and
Bafflement until, unexpectedly, Poetry
Is discovered; stumbled upon in the dark
Like a Beacon of Truth where you once
Were teetering on the verge of total doubt.
Simple statements are useful; elegant
Even, though these are equally not Poetry.
Poetry is that time when you met the most
Soul enriching life partner, one that so
Conquers your very essence, and drags
You helplessly into Love; Poetry is what
Lies left, your escape, if only for a moment.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A good ars poetica, Winston. You may like to read my ars poetica named as (Poetic Sense-1) Thanks