the original "what poetry is, to me"

Poetry, for me, seems to be several things all at once; and intersection of various points in time, space, and emotional expanse that coexist in the arrangement of units (letters, numbers, signs, 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 like a piano down into your heart and soul. Poetry pulls both ways, and while it pulls it also pushes, lifts and crushes, builds and destroys, illuminates and confuses, ad infinitum, et cetera, et cetera.
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 recipe for nostalgia, even for places you have not been. Lightning bolt-nighttime razor blade multifaceted diamond wheel of infinity. The perfect 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.

Mid-August at Sourdough Mountain Lookout

Down valley a smoke haze
Three days heat, after five days rain
Pitch glows on the fir-cones
Across rocks and meadows
Swarms of new flies.

I cannot remember things I once read
A few friends, but they are in cities.
Drinking cold snow-water from a tin cup
Looking down for miles
Through high still air.

Gary Snyder