Sunday, April 29, 2012

Poem of the Day #2: "Endlessly Rocking"

Poetry is powerful emotion recollected in tranquility, certainly.  As the world continues its inexorable evolution, and poetry dies for the millionth time since humanity first scribbled words on clay, the shifting definitions must allow that Wordsworth's is entirely true.  The all-inclusive descriptions of "what makes a poem" are fantastic for their democratic nature, but useless in defining an art form.  I recognize the authenticity of the attempt, but I reject the utility of it.  For me, poetry is like pornography, you know it when you see it, and the vast majority of what we now see would have been better left rotting in the corner of its author's mind.

I saw a face deep in the crowd—
A face without a name
A face that—time ignoring—
Might—in my mind—not change—
And though oft I swear I can forget
It is true I never do—
Though that moment has long since passed—
I swear that face was you.

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