I always reckoned that, if it came down to it, I could totally take poetry out. I mean, seriously, as much as one can respect poetry’s mind, poise and philosophies, it has to be observed that it wears glasses and is a little weedy. So I figure I’d totally kick it’s ass.
Which, sadly, in a fight or flight kind of way, is a normal response to a thing that one fundamentally doesn’t understand. Which I don’t, though I’ve tried. Just kind of figured it was one of those things… my wiring or something.
Anyway, recently I’ve ventured into the domain of poetry under the scrupulous and benevolent gaze of One Who Knows and have been surprised at the delight of it. The impact and the strength of it. I certainly couldn’t claim any particular knowledge or understanding, having only read from two particular authors, but I seem to have been talked through the door and into a comfy chair. There’s a power to it I wasn’t expecting, a concentration by way of dilution that leverages meaning, both personal and from the poet, through no intention of my own. While I remain baffled, I’m suddenly curious about it in ways I never was and couldn’t fake.
Poetry doesn’t box, it does one of those weird martial arts from the elevated, remote mountainous regions of Asia, where Mums & Dads pass on to their children the secret of extracting, using just their left earlobe and breathing techniques, people’s appendix through their elbow. I have a friend who spent many years learning a thing called Zen Do Kai – it’s one of those martial arts that takes the most violent parts of other martial arts and, through a process of dehydration and using the hot wash cycle, concentrates them into an evolutionary beast that would terrify anyone with the brain kinetics fast enough to appreciate what just happened to them. This friend of mine, Broad of Shoulder, used to come around and say things like, ‘Dude, I’ve gotta show you this move, it’s awesome. Try and punch me really hard in the face.” And, after some false starts and argument, I would. Because I’m stupid. The next thing I knew I would be face down on the carpet with his foot on the back of my neck and my right arm at a distinctly uncomfortable angle, wondering what the fuck just happened.
Poetry has a result like that. In that you end up on the ground, staring at the ceiling, wondering how the fuck you ended up there. There are two basic forms of martial arts, as I understand: hard forms and soft forms. Hard forms are all about the application of force, direct and precise, while soft forms are about the redistribution of the force, the redirection and absorption of it. The soft form is strangely intimate. Poetry is kind of like that, a soft form. It’s pretty cool. And totally preferable to Broad of Shoulder’s process. I mean, staring at the ceiling unexpectedly can be fun but the process of getting there really makes a difference.
So I’ll get back to you about that ass kicking.