Oranges, poranges, who cares.
A "friend of mine" asked the question, "why should we read poetry".
If I had only one answer it would be about the necessity for limericks and Nantucket, however, there is always more than one answer and almost as many questions.
I could haiku all over you and fill your couplets with verse for the worse.
I could A B A you with fanciful thoughts until you changed your schemes.
The words could roll from my mighty pen until the paper only yields to sweet thoughts and the notion of passion contained and unleashed.
I refuse.
What use is poetry? It does not feed babies. It only inspires pain, with its insistance upon raw, visceral intrusion. It stabs at beauty while it slices moments of lost desire. Poetry mocks our inertia and forces us to wallow in better times of nostalgia.
Why do we need to read poetry?
The empty words of long gone poets ring in our coarser natures and peal like church bells calling us to improve our dreams and build a better reality.
In other words, poetry prevents us from being alone... Chicks dig it.
Dabuoy
