The good poets who are mysterious and mystical dent the universe for a moment of viewing and invite everyone. They achieve their objective by addressing the unseen forces that propel our lives forward and sideways and work through us. These poets cannot rely on the conventions of language, because they cannot be translated. The universe has no language. It’s awesome raw power exists whether we can think of anything to say about it or not. The good poets thought of something and had the foresight to write it down and the bravery to share it.
The bad poets come with an arsenal of cliches, because at the time they were conceived even the tiredest cliche cracked the universe open. And they crave that power. They can remind us that good poets once existed, but the universe has a way of healing itself and all its wounds before they get there.
The good poets act as conduits once they tap into the real binding power that holds cites on floating rocks circling bits of fire in the vast spattering of matter that none of us will ever see in full. And they make the great sadness that is our collective ignorance bearable.
The bad poets lie about the immensity of what the universe has hidden from view. But, we can not hold that against them, because even the good poets are afraid. If a bad poet choses to lie to himself, it must be understood as the easiest way to get from the coordinates where they were born to the coordinates where they will die. They need words like life and death to help navigate.
The good poets have forgotten themselves as they spoke. That is what separates poets. That the truths could be seen and spoken by a fragment of the universe, a minor smear in time. That takes its toll. And there is most bizarre occurrence. That the universe charges the poet as it passes through. That the good poet often breaks in the process. That reasonable wear and tear are not accounted for by the cosmos.
These are the truths about poets that open questions. What is a poet? Why do we need them? We are all poetry in speech or thought. We need each other to hear words, speak words and stand together in awe at our crucial, but minuscule part in the machinery of life and existence.
Can you hear the sound of fear? Am I a bad poet? Do you hear the sound of love? Could I be a good poet? But, people are not poets. We are all composed of poetry. The poet is our essence and poetry is our form.
Inside us, the protectors and the adventurers, the bad poets and the good ones, are dancing away, churning our collected reflections from beyond the firmament. And who should we listen to today?