Poetry is subjective.
It is music. It is all around us. It is in our bones and in our heads. If you are a poet – you know what I mean. You don’t have to write word for word a lyrical anthology that vies with the mental acuity of the greats that are long gone. All you have to do is to feel – a motion, a lyric, a joy or sorrow – and put that on paper. If it rhymes – wonderful. If it doesn’t – cool. If it has set stanza or not – it is all good. Why? Because to me – poetry is like art. It’s in the eye of the beholder. I might see a painting or a poem and it might not speak to me. But did it speak to the artist? Does it speak to someone? Then that is what matters. I hate seeing bad reviews given when the reviewer doesn’t like ‘that type of poetry.’ I’ve never understood that. It either spoke to you or it didn’t. And if it didn’t then move on to another work. I am constantly impressed by poetry that I read – paying little attention to what was said in a writing class years ago. Because I can read the emotion in the words and for the ones that speak to my soul – I find myself swimming in them, gulping up the art of others as I glide through. I’m astounded sometimes in what I write. I’m not a traditional poet – sure I’ve written a limerick in Ireland or toss in a stanza or rhyme here and there – but usually what I write came from the moment and the song that was racing from my heart to my fingers in that precise moment.