Lord teach us to care and not to care. TS Eliot
“What is poetry?”
Will we meet it – a stranger, bouquet of roses in hand – at romantic junctions; will we feel a flash of recognition because of a connection with some old acquaintance; or will it be words that quietly accompany the descent of those roses – fallen, crushed and left to wither?
What if we feel moved to make a poem – what trade descriptions’ regulations do we need to follow; and to whom do we apply to request that the out-moded be repealed?
And after manufacture, how to bring it to the artistic marketplace? What well-worn paths in the imagination might we count on to encourage those new to poetry to partake; and what ‘shock of the new’ tactics can we bring to bear for the conservative to comptemplate a new way of experiencing this poetry?
How can all this be considered without a working definition, for now, of what poetry is?
And how is anything to be written without first walking away from that question?