When I was in high school, my English teacher told us to write letters to our future selves. Well, more like writing books than letters. It was a time capsule, printed and bound with yarn. We included letters and photos, ideas and poems. One of the coolest parts of the assignment is that we could include songs with our poems. If it struck us or made us feel something, we could include it.
To this day, that strikes me. Mr. Shea defined poetry not as prose, stanzas, meter and assonance, but as emotion. Poetry is a thing of beauty; it is an encapsulation of a moment and an emotion, or so I believe to this day.
And so, I propose a re-imagination of the term poetry.
I propose that movement can be poetry. That the way he tucks your hair behind your ear, those careful 1 am footsteps through the snow, scribbling hands and nervous tremors, those are poetry.
I propose that moments can be poetry. That the way the ocean crashes into your converse, those carefree wrestling matches on the floor, extended lunches and pages turned, those are poetry.
I propose that vision can be poetry. That the way streetlight diffuses into the night, those curious eyes seeing everything with purpose, risky glances and blurred tears, those are poetry.
I propose that sound can be poetry. That the way the sound of a car driving fades away, those captured notes playing through a sound system, clicking keys and fearless laughter, those are poetry.
I propose that touch can be poetry. That the way a parent clings to their baby girl, those casual brushes that send tingles through your soul, clasped hands and landed fists, those are poetry.
I propose that breath can be poetry. That the way you gulp in air after surfacing from water, those chosen whispers that float against your skin, winter clouds and choking sobs, those are poetry.
I propose that people can be poetry. That the strength of someone picking themselves up again, those cherished bonds that never really fade, quick acquaintances and battered hearts, those are poetry.
I propose that we are poetry. We who are and were and still are yet to be, we who feel and we who are numb, we who fall and we who fly. We who feel comfortable in our own skins and we who would give anything to leave them behind.
Poetry is beauty; it is humanity.
And that is a hell of a lot more valuable than a rhyme scheme.