The invention of Poetry

as imagined today


April 20th


Today the sunshine was particularly radiant and the flowers are on the verge of blooming; it is in all a pretty day. Today’s events as transcribed in this entry have been spectacular to say the least and to me personally life-changing.


I shall begin where all things begin, and that is the woman. That woman, how should I say it? That woman was life changing. No, that doesn’t adequately delineate my intentions. If prior things have been described as life changing then the term falls short of fully describing her.


Come to think of it, all words that have been used prior fall short as adjectives in this regard because this woman is like nothing else, and the way she makes me feel is like nothing else. I am a man of words and letters, and so, as you imagine, this is quite frustrating because see, I wholeheartedly agree, with the notion that emotion can be described with text. But if all words fall short of bringing her to life perhaps something else ought do the task.


An important aspect in her existence is the music of it,

Aye the music she brings forth into my sensory center

I have never experienced anything like this before

And what’s more

Is that she defines,

Or redefines the impossible; she’s divine

It’s not her shape per se

For I have seen and experienced enough women to be able to say

That no pure beauty, that is physical, can catch my eye in such a way

It’s perhaps in tiny details like her laugh

I think part of her beauty in all probability is its indescribability


So here I am trying to convey, to my ability

And to say, with all my descriptive facilities,

What is impossible to portray


Could one begin to ascribe the label of perfection

To what he describes when he knows that upon inspection

That he will arrive to many imperfections

When in fact the latters existence

Is a premise to such ascription?


In my frustration I happen to create an

Inadequate interpretation

An inadequate description

Layer upon layer of textual creation

That ends, or rather begins, with a culmination

Of falling short, in my report of such manifestation

It is not sexual tension

It is my inadequacy at recollection

With words such affection


The irony is that I the bard of words

Cannot to any extent exact what’s in my mind

To paper

I find

Myself to be usually, the shaper of words into worlds

But this is now a feat I cannot savor

And if without my words she shall be lost

That also means I cannot save her


Allow me to repeat

She is like sunshine seen today,

She adds color to the scene

And between, her laughter and her smiles,

I find myself unable to compile, without resistance,

A summary of her existence


I find a need to invent, in my anguish, some new form of language

Poetry I shall call it

To attempt to shape her with words

But I know

That I shall fail in my task

For she

Is indescribable


I shall try even though I know

I am destined to fail

Perhaps that is some other form of poetry



Perhaps that cosmic creation’s sole purpose is asphyxiation of language

Perhaps, such universal complication, is a personification of human inadequacy

And perhaps application of language to describe such inconsistency has further implications

But it is not my place to make any such indication


So where am I, the poet, to find salvation,

If my own descriptive methods, have no ends in sight

If I cannot with my own letters, bring her to life


Perfection can’t describe her; she describes perfection

And I can only hope to be unflattering in my depiction

But alas the lowly words of men serve me not, to my affliction

So perhaps this poetry thing can approach adequate description




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