Andrew S)iskind
Poetry, for me, seems to be several things all at once; an
intersection of various points in time, space, and emotional expanse
that coexist in the arrangement of units (as here (letters, numbers, handsigns,
words, etc) on the face of a page. There is a tension in poetry that is
the result of multiple presences, diametric opposites even,
maintaining a tenuous balance – what I mean to say is, poetry needs
to have both levity and gravity in each individual moment, so that
each component can float up into your mind, then fall (or rather
plummet like a cartoon piano) down into your heart and soul.
Poetry pulls both ways, and(rew d(raws living
sketches)) while it pulls it also
pushes, lifts and crushes, builds and destroys, illuminates and confuses,
ad infinitum, et cetera, et cetera, Amen et goodnight.
Like all art, it is something like a cross between demonic possession
and cabinetry. It is eagles falling from heaven, but more importantly
it’s also the memories of your childhood. It’s memories you
haven’t made yet. Poetry is the (crockery in the) recipe for
nostalgia, even for places you have not been. Lightning bolt-nighttime
razor blade multifaceted diamond wheel of infinity. The perfect un-
wisdom that cuts through the void. Poetry is the difficulties of
metacognition. It is the wall we build. It is also the sledgehammer.
This is a poem for you.
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