Poetry

"My hobbies include
Editing my life story
Hiding behind metaphors
And trying to convince my shadow
That I’m someone worth following”

----Rudy Franscisco, from "My Honest Poem"

Ok, in clarification that I don't view myself as any special snowflake or anything for quoting generally obscure  poetry, and the fact that I'm going to talk about some of my favorites---but in all honesty, I really do enjoy poetry. I'm picky and to be honest, half the time I don't understand what I'm reading or don't understand it until later, but I think it's beautiful and sharp and poignant. At least, the ones that have meaning to me on a deep and personal level.

The thing about poetry is that everyone has their own interpretation and experience with a poem. That it can mean one thing or many to one person and be seen as an entirely different portrayal by another is one of my favorite things about the complexity and craft of poetry; and that I have read poems that have given me goosebumps by the honesty in them, or by reducing me into tears because sometimes reading them can be painful and true, is another. 

I wouldn't consider myself a snob in poetry, simply because I haven't read enough or studied it enough to know everything. I like what I like; I appreciate what I can; and I criticize as fairly as I can. My tastes can be somewhat generic, perhaps---I love Cummings and Plath, Crane and Poe; Hughes, Shakespeare, Eliot, Silverstein, Frost. 

I also really love listening to spoken. Sarah Kay, Dana Gilmore, Shira Erlichman, Kai Davis, Camonghne Felix, Yani Mo. Alllll women, interestingly enough.

Anyway, let me share some of my favorites so I can get enough words!
Nostalgia - Alberto Blanco

There is the sky. Now I can see it.

There is the open sky
waiting for the best I can give.

Left behind are parents,
friends, givers of advice...

The dream toys of childhood,
the tree of desire,
night in the depths of the pool,
the park that witnessed our first kiss...

I see it all in the distance
like a body that awakens
in a remote part of the landscape.
I look at it as if it were false.

We have arrived at life
by saying farewell to everything we've loved,
to that which was given,
to all those we love.

But there, at this moment, is the sky.

The World Does Not Belong to You, Though You Belong to the World,

for this is not a marriage,
living. Only you have
given your hand and
climbed into the carriage
of Morning. Where do you
think you’re going? Morning
owes you nothing. She is

fickle, she is strong. Only
to Morning does Morning
belong. As she takes you
into the day, onto the old
wide way of the world, she
sings so intimate a song you
may begin to believe she

loves you. You may even
come to believe you somehow
guide her along sometimes,
but you are wrong.
You think you are a pitcher
taking the mound, but it’s
the other way around.

—Todd Boss, from yellowrocket: Poems (W. W. Norton & Co., 2008)