Poetry be damned
I've taken to asking myself lately
of what use is poetry
to the one's eternally crucified
on death's boulevard
the maimed the abused
the downtrodden the hungry
poems isn't the magic balm
it isn't the cure for their circle of hell
in a classroom full of tired faces
I read poetry to children born to suffering
a tiny voice quipped
"Why is the sun described as beautiful"
"the sun is hot. Makes me thirsty. Makes me weak.It is not beautiful," he said
as I wondered how to answer
not wanting to scar his mind
I thought of him;
Ibrahim
Ibrahim--
born in the Palestine Camps
to gunfire and bombs
to death, fire, violence
once we talked into the early morning
he read Gibran to me in Arabic and English
and how poetry saved him on days and nights
when he was surrounded by ugliness
maybe that's why poetry exists
poets paint the world with grace
in a world bereft of beauty
even in the cloak of blackness
a few words leave us in wonderment
of a world beyond our nightmares.
©Lost
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Comments
We read to know that we are not alone. We write to say: "I am here."
From the time that our ancestors sat around campfires at night and spoke the first words to one another, we have told each other stories; not merely to entertain or pass a long night, but to construct a narrative which has continued from the beginning of every culture. It was, and is, how we tell ourselves and each other who and what we are. Through the stories, we remind ourselves of where we came from and where we want to go.
It is through poetry, music and art; and the stories these forms convey: that we transmit our thoughts, feelings and ideals. For many of us, it is our only truly reliable point of contact...with one another.
Your own fine poem here is a case in point.
J ;)
Thank you Jason. Much appreciated