Found
It’s that time of year again, isn’t it? The snow is falling, the air is rolling softly between the dried branches. Or maybe it isn’t. If you close your blinds, the difference will melt away like the ice that may or may not be outside. Go on, do it. Are…
Earlier this year, I was asked to write a manifesto, and set my beliefs about poetry to paper. Would you be surprised to hear that I don’t believe in much? I should explain. I am in a perpetual state of war with universals. Grand, sweeping statements are odious to me, how could I possibly apply one to my own work? It was with this sentiment in mind that I began to explore the idea of poetic truth, and the greater purpose of poetry as a whole.
It quickly became apparent to me that the truth and beauty of poetry does not, as many would think, come from stating the universal. The true, emotional heart of poetry, rather, comes from the poet’s ability to tap into the ever changing, unique nature of their own history. Never craft a message everyone knows, the ink will begin to fade before it passes through ten sets of hands. A more lasting beauty, instead, is formed by the secrets we keep; it allows the reader to project their understandings on to the author’s truths. You will find, in each word written by another’s hand, a message, but not always a definite one. You will find photos, but you will not always know their stories. Regardless, these things are yours. The things made for someone’s own expression have become your tools for comfort. They’re amazing gifts, aren’t they? Keep them, preserve them, correct them, whatever. They’re yours as soon as you see them. Just take care of what you find.
It quickly became apparent to me that the truth and beauty of poetry does not, as many would think, come from stating the universal. The true, emotional heart of poetry, rather, comes from the poet’s ability to tap into the ever changing, unique nature of their own history. Never craft a message everyone knows, the ink will begin to fade before it passes through ten sets of hands. A more lasting beauty, instead, is formed by the secrets we keep; it allows the reader to project their understandings on to the author’s truths. You will find, in each word written by another’s hand, a message, but not always a definite one. You will find photos, but you will not always know their stories. Regardless, these things are yours. The things made for someone’s own expression have become your tools for comfort. They’re amazing gifts, aren’t they? Keep them, preserve them, correct them, whatever. They’re yours as soon as you see them. Just take care of what you find.