The Heart of Poetry
The heart of poetry is difficult to reach
since there is almost nothing more evasive,
keeping mainly abstract and impossible to pinpoint,
analyses being usually a complete waste and failure,
since they only manage to break poems down for nothing,
the extremest sensitivity of poetry allowing no blasphemous trespassing
and being all too easily too deeply hurt;
and that's how we now manage to approach the secret:
that precarious touchiness is not for mortals to tread down,
the soul of poetry will not allow or even risk debasing,
so it has to constantly be on the run and fly away,
its very spirit being purely escapist,
since it can not survive or live at all
except in total freedom without limits,
since its gift demands complete space,
like the eagle and the condor needs their heaven without end,
in order to at all be able to exist;
but for what flight and purpose then needs poetry her wings?
For her expression, which demands completeness or nothing at all,
since poetry at heart is nothing but
the highest and the purest most refined expression,
of what else if not just love?
Poetry by Christian Lanciai
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Written on 2006-12-26 at 14:45
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