I have a weird relationship with poetry. Sometimes I really need to write what I would call a poem, but unlike regular prose, I don’t feel I have any craft at the medium.
It’s a strange feeling, because I can *recognize* a good poem immediately. There’s a resonance right there, the language does all sorts of things in a good poem that you wouldn’t think language can do.
I can see it, I just can’t make it very well, and this is where I know the frustration of the passionate art aficionado who cannot paint, or the deeply sensitive lover of beauty whose own facade is ugly- I love the twist and ache of crystallized language, but I fall short at creating it.
So I’ve sort of made my own style of nugget sized prose- They aren’t exactly, really poems.
And they don’t necessarily mean something. (They don’t necessarily not.) A poem, to my mind, is something like a snapshot- the imagery of emotions taken in a moment. It doesn’t hafta fit into a framework or have immediately recognizable context. It can be inspired directly, or by several degrees of separation.
The result always fill me with ambivalence. Ah well. At heart this place has always been my space, to write or not to write, to poem or not to poem. -And so the nuggets will continue, at least for the time being.