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What is it about poetry?

What is it about poetry that “gets us right there?” It’s National Poetry Month, so I am asking.

Dr. Raphael Campo, a poet and physician at Harvard Medical school, puts it this way: “When we hear rhythmic language and recite poetry, our bodies translate crude sensory data into nuanced knowing — feeling becomes meaning.”

Imagine, a poet-physician arriving at nuanced knowing, the very place where feeling becomes meaning. It seems almost impossible doesn’t it? That our bodies are the translators. But who better than the ones who study the body to heal the body, to interpret the language it begets?

Not just the lub-dub, lub-dub in the rhythm of a heart beating. Surely, its beats per minute indicating healthy or not. Its volume signaling functional or not.

Not just the whoosh in, whoosh out of the respiring lungs. Their filling and emptying is surely essential to the operation of the organism.

Not just the electronic whir of signal transmission of the brain. And not just the regular pulse of blood through the arteries.

Not just and yet I can’t help but think that rhythm recognizes itself. Knows its kin. Tunes in and pays special attention to its own. That the body responds to poetry because the body is poetic. Lyrical. Creation set in motion. Without prompting or instruction, the toddler sways, the child twirls, the partners step toe to toe.

Just so, my soul recognizes and delights in rhythm. But there’s more to the poetic than rhythm. And that’s why it begs us to read it aloud, recite it, hear it spoken or performed. Verbalized, the poetic allows us to both gather the outline and sketch in the details. To give shape to the form and pour in the color. To chew and swallow, taste and smell. To bring it to life.

Just as the mind does for a well-told story. We know it. We feel it. It has meaning for us and uniquely to us. It draws out what is true from within us, and speaks urgently to our “right now.” Because that’s what we bring to it. And blessedly, so blessedly, we can all gather around poetry because there is not just one right answer.

Mind you, not just willy-nilly words will do this. It’s the culled, cultivated, carefully chosen words that settle deep. The true poet uses words and phrases expertly arranged with an ear for rhythm, a sense of style, how one word will relate to the next, and a feeling for how they will settle on their hearers. Though we each receive them in a slightly different way, if we dare to attend without withholding, poetry has the potential to wake up the poetic in us. To shed light in our darkness, to lift burden from our bearing, and to clarify our way into each new day.

We are all poets. Words animated. Sculpted from the raw materials gifted at first light. Honest words if we are brave enough. And so helpful in their moment to get us through our moment.

How does poetry work on us?
as art... it feels

I feel everything.
I feel the loud.
I feel the crush of bodies.
I feel the eyes on me.
I feel the distance between us.
I feel the, no one is talking to me.
I feel the, everyone has a friend but me.
I feel the invisible.
I am invisible.

Let me go.
I'll be going.
I'll show myself out.

Hey, what's your name? 
she called, as I turned to leave.
I'm Deborah.
I want to meet you.

Wendy, I tell her.
I was almost Wendy, she says, 
Until my mother's
mother in law said I couldn't be.

I love the name, Wendy.
I've always wanted to be Wendy.
Wendy suits you.
So glad to meet you.

I feel the quiet.
I feel the smile.
I feel the distance close.
I feel the visible.
I am visible.

Oh, Dear Poetry, you reach in and touch the deepest parts of us. May we be brave enough to endure it and bold enough to believe it so we can proudly proclaim it.

Recovering rhythm

There's been a schism; we've lost our rhythm.
(it's what we used to rely on the world to supply)

What's slowed our pace has nearly stopped our race.
But hey, stay-at-home is not stuck alone. 

Turn up the volume, be inspired
dial the inner music even higher.
Let it lead you, even feed you.
Feel the beat? Let me be concrete.

Brass and woodwinds, oh the strings;
soaring, skyward on heavenly wings
wait, be still, in the listening land
see for yourself what's taking your hand.

beat-beat-beat, be bold, be B O L D
flap-flap-flap, behold, be H O L D...

Spirit on high, lift us up, let us fly!

Gliding, soaring, windswept wings
Far above all ordinary things
Upward, onward, take us there
Lift us into the glorious air

Into, into what is best
Rhythm of rhythm, and holy rest.

lift-o-lift, to soar, to SOAR
up-and-up, toward a distant shore
Beat of beats, be bold, be BOLD
flap of wings, take hold, please hold.

Oh, friend rhythm, you've returned
Power and might, you have restored
Life blood, flow, engorge, imbue;
Body and soul, it's you!
A New

Not Your Usual Bouncer

Ready…go!

Each set off
at his own pace
with her own rhythm
in their own style.

tennis-balls-bouncing
Bounce.. bounce…. bounce. bounce…boun..ce bounceee.. bou..bbounce

Tennis balls,
in their joy and merriment,
leaping and playing,
of their own accord.

Until
bounce..bounce.bounce..bounce..bounce.bounce..bounce.
Became
bounce.bounce.bounce.bounce.

They were finished, then.
Fallen in,
Rank and file,
Orderly. Procession.

Oh, the sound.
Calling me,
To sameness, calm,
quiet, appeasement, rhythm.

So easy to slip in,
under the waves,
along for the ride,
go with the flow.

There was another sound.
Quiet, but clear.
Of opportunity beckoning,
between the bouncing,
between the bouncing.

Growing louder,
more insistent.
Am I the only one who hears it?

Close ranks! Tighten up!
and…Bbbbbbbbounce.
Rapid fire. Precision.
Poise. Focus.

Deliberately different.
Not disruptive,
Distinct.

It was a competition, after all.
There was a Prize.

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