What Is Poetry? You Ask! Poem by Michael Pruchnicki

Poetry is the term applied to the many forms in which we have given a rhythmic expression to our most imaginative and intense perceptions of our world, ourselves, and the interrelationship of both.

I might include some of the following as noteworthy aspects-

rhythmical creation of beauty
imaginative expression of strong feeling
criticism of life by laws of poetic truth and beauty
employing words so as to produce an illusion of the imagination
concrete and artistic expression of the human mind

Perhaps Emily Dickinson best expressed the essence of poetry-

'If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that it is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that it is poetry.'

I suspect some of you who read this will resort to some crude or vulgar response to what I've written. Crudity and vulgarity in the service of poetic ends can be justified, let me assure you. Read Charles Bukowski, for instance. Can any of you match the following? Note the imaginative use of language in the following-

cancer

I found her room at the top of the
stairway.
she was alone.
'hello, Henry, ' she said, then,
'you know, I hate this room, there's
no window.'

I had a terrible hangover,
the smell was unbearable,
I felt as if I was going to
vomit.

'they operated on me two days ago, '
she said. 'I felt better the next
day but now it's the same, maybe
worse.'

'I'm sorry, mom.'

'you know, you were right, your father
is a terrible man.'

poor woman, a brutal husband and
an alcoholic son.

'excuse me, mom. I'll be right
back...'

the smell had seeped into me,
my stomach was jumping.
I got out of the room
and walked down the stairs,
sat there
holding on to the railing,
breathing the fresh
air.

the poor woman.

I kept breathing the air and
managed not to
vomit.
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Read that and wake up, some of you whiners and smell the fucking air of real poetry. Never mind your psychic distress and unhappiness at a failed fucking marriage-unless you can transform it into a poem like Charles Bukowski's 'cancer.'

Enough is enough already, ladies and gents. Proofread your shit and learn the hard trade of real writing.

Mick