In Which I Write It Out

I was very frustrated in my poetry class this morning. We were talking about why poetry is less important in America than it is in other places and than it has been in the past. I think that it is an important discussion. And one that has causal roots in many different places. I quickly became frustrated because it seemed as though I had heard everything that was said before. People were talking about a lack of imagination, but they were using arguments that have made their way into the very mass media that they derided and decried. I think that pieces of their arguments could be used--but an effort should be made to avoid the cliches that smother imaginative expression. I think that there is a separation of self that runs rampant through modern  life. We are pulled in at least six different directions before breakfast; and then we must emerge from the relative safety of home and face the cacophony of sensation that is day-to-day existence. It is media. It is work. It is urbanity. It is politics. It is expectations. I don't know it life has always been this confusing and demanding--and I am probably guilty of romanticizing more than a little--but it seems as though there is much required and little regained in these days of our lives. I think that poetry is one of those arts that allows us to knit our selves together again. The requirements of the poet (for poems are requests for reactions) take that strand of our consciousness and teach it a new way to twine with the fabric of reality. And that can be both restorative and spark new growth.