I look for certain things in poetry. The poetry I like feels infinite, timeless, endless. They are living, breathing poems that burn as I take them in, swallow the words in one giant gulp. The poems I love most are the ones that take the longest to digest, the ones where you take layer after layer off the top and there always seems to be more. It is a different reading every time.
Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself” exudes these qualities, perhaps because it “contains multitudes” (or maybe just because it’s very, very long). But nevertheless, I read it, and maybe I don’t understand all of it or know Whitman’s intent, but I can breathe it all in and feel the words in my soul. That is what poetry is.
Poetry is when I can read words and, amongst their infinite combinations and possibilities, I can feel these letters and spaces and punctuation and blots of ink. I can hold in my hands the words and let them transcend space and time. They will breathe with me and move me forward.
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Celestially Created 