I am finding that as much as I love writing and reading poetry, it has bona fide limits in its execution. These limitations can be resounding. In a temporal, evaluative, contemplative space, there’s all the room in the universe to think, ponder, ascertain, spot, pontificate, exercise, expound, and eulogize. A perfect world for thought, a space for consideration, and emotive spirit bringing like and unlike things together in metaphor even a place for pronouncement and exhalation.
However, where comes the landscape, context, actors, characters, dialogue, topography, and linear time within a play?
So much is missing around the edges. Perfect for a soliloquy but by whom, for whom? Always the writer’s perspective? His or her own voice?
What chronology of time do we exist? What town, village, or city do we reside? On what dirt or pavement in what corner of the globe? What persuasion? What age, gender, civilization do we hail? To whom is our object and where do all these foundations reside on the other side of the equation? Character or reader, in fact?
Stifling? Sitting at desk.
Situated? Standing at a podium.
Pressed? Recorded by voice with a microphone.
Folded? Stuck in a book.
Muted? A thought for yourself.
And musicians say, that in the audience they find an energy that lifts, the song and melody to new heights, alterations in transitu, so a mutual connection amplifies such a conversation. As the art appears, the give and take of sensory feelings work upon one another. The audience becomes part of the essence of the work. For a poem, it is like the slab of a tombstone embedded in the ground, solitary in some foreign, distant, derelict, left tilted in some obstructed, overgrown field.
At least, a poem can be a coded message sent from one Cell to another, through the bars, by some slip of paper, in the hopes another has the inclination for such amusement in the decoding of it, and the consideration which follows.