Why is Poetry Necessary?

Why is Poetry Necessary?



Somebody once asked me that question
many wanted to, perhaps
but the decibels
from a Marshall amp
impregnated by an aging Telly
wouldn't let them....

(well, that is a lyricist's prerogative...)

but to answer this
in a style as befits the mood
of a question:

dead poets might remark
that many women need wooing.........
(does that ever really change?)

they might all be gratified to know
that even though quite dead
their word lives on
suggesting at least
some kind of claim to immortality

and the spark that once lived
inside a human breast
kindles a flame of
human hunger

and as scholars pick the stuff apart
and look for news and clues
the rest of us
throw words around
as if they grew on trees

a social noise
of deafening dimensions
meanwhile headphones
become the guardian
of our solitude.

One day
(as parents will)
I happened to pick up
an album of typical design
some bit of popstuff
as will entertain a teenager
and noticing the cover
thought it suggestive
of high-fashion sensibility
no doubt,
this template is required
for the purpose of indeed
judging a book by its cover
and then browsing through
the songlist
(that of the righteous and holy thirteen)
all explored the same theme
(of love, what else?)
then back once more
to scan the cover
realizing that of course
the one who looks like that
would be an expert
on the subject. Why not?

then reading through the cascading stanzas
not surprised to discover
nothing really new, or different
such expert advice,
of commonplace, and typical
led me to ponder.....
young hearts do love, no doubt
but why so endlessly confined, defined?

for that hunger
a fever of the spirit
truly soaring beyond the safe and known
will never stop just there
will attempt with solitary courage
to walk beyond frontiers
explore unknown faces, places
all dimensions of the human heart
and perhaps bring back reports
compare notes
and ponder what it is they've seen and heard
and felt.............

Do these "experts"
speak for all humanity
or just celebrate the looks
they're born with
just what the creator bestowed for free
a bit of toning, careful dieting,
bits of cosmetic manipulation
and voila!
talent speaks a hard line
that humanity has been reduced
to conventional standards
of hormonal activity

bits of chemistry
elemental, within a laboratory
experiments run amuck
all enzymes, chromosomes, nerves
valves, tissues, fluids, blood and bone
reduced as stone,
to nothing more than a primal beat
(although it's sweet) and inexorable
life-affirming, and all the rest
and leads to birthing of brand-new babies......

somehow, and sadly
many never do.
(am I surprised?)

such fascination
uncovering the lies
within the lies
inside the lies
and all the stuff
we're not supposed to know......

but back to poetry...
was it never, ever needed
more than now?

a world-beat proudly joins our little planet
in a dance so lovely in despair
hands reach out and touch us
from every corner, every township
and with a rhythm haunts us, taunts us
and wants us to believe
we can recieve the holy message
(what's the message?)
that if we hear it in our soul
that raging joy will move our bodies
and so the marriage of spirit and matter
will bear the fruit of
human motions dignified, personified
and stamp upon our sensibilities
that which is alive.......moves
that which is dead.......sits still.

(even my fingers dance right now)

Meanwhile
a poet and a clown
sit down
after trading occupations
and discover their exchange
has rearranged
the molecules of madness
in their brains
after all
we never ever found a way
to crawl inside each other's skins
and feel one iota
of each other's reality.
the shapes and tones and shadows
colors, or any simple topography
the geography
of its claim to existence
is forbidden territory
"take it all", we say.......
life, liberty and all my formal claims
to any pursuit of happiness
but leave me that which is mine
by virtue of some plan
that was not designed by man
(thank God for that!)

that being said.........

just what else are we left with
but poetry?

perhaps we're all truly poets
after a fashion
after a fusion and a fission
and a mission once completed
and expression, once conceded
to be the stuff of our discontent

(especially when we do not forget to laugh!)
but at ourselves?
perhaps if we ever really knew
how funny it all really is
nothing would get done
the wheels of society
would just fall off
and there we'd all be
floundering by the wayside
washed and dried in a high tide
laundered by the comedy
of errors, terrors

(while recording the event)
the money's spent
the bank has lent
the branch is bent
we put a dent
and moved the boulder.......

and now you're minutes older
reader........

and this simple small display
of literary activity
was only meant
to distract you from
a meaningful existence
and if it worked, I can feel relief
still, it's my belief
that poetry is necessary
somewhere in there
between the personality and the pen.