I love how you compare these physical skills to poetry because I have always seen it that way myself.
Before I developed CFS, I used to be a boxer. Though from an external viewers perspective it's all a bunch of brutal blows, pounding thumps, busted lips. From the boxers perspective, it's actually something more aligned to poetry in motion. The way a duck and weave evades a blow whilst simultaneously loading up the counter strike. The jab extends just far enough to load the following right cross. The feet, flittering with small but methodically placed steps, positioning you ever closer and yet just outside of the reach of retaliation with a clever play on angles. And with practice how these movements blur together into a smoothe, almost seamless display of prowess. It too felt like poetry. Not just a pugilist, but a poet who spat a thousand flying fists into his rivals face.
beautifully -- poetically! -- articulated Conway, thank you. And I agree with you about boxing; when a bout becomes that smooth seamless display, that fluid dance, we know we are in a different realm.
Thank you, I think the post rekindled, or at least reminded me of my love of poetry in its many forms. How Manny compared poetry to movement and actions. Because it often isn't compared by other that same way, but I always felt they were comparable. I just couldn't easily explain how or why.
Reflecting on the movement of the verse, whether real or metaphorical. The rhythm, rate and those pauses. The long pauses that build suspense. Then the sudden cascade of action that drops like a thundering clap as the verse morphs into a waterfall of heavy stormy scurrying. Until eventually it patters out again quietly into nothing but a long silence. Essentially dying and then dead.
The brief life the verse possessed might have only been for a few minutes, or even only seconds. But in it's short life there existed within it a soul. And when a verse, movement, metaphor or action has a soul. It is alive. Whether inanimate or not, doesn't really matter. That brief life possessed by it is beautiful and meaningful. Maybe just to me. Maybe it has meaning to others too. But there is something about it all that makes it more than what it is and what it appears to be. And I love that.
On the subject of poiesis, "is a bricklayer a poet?" Hmmm ... That's a brilliant question! When a bricklayer creates something inspiring, a thing of beauty, let’s say a sheltering adobe home, or a fireplace for warmth, perhaps with bricks that he or she has made, then yes, that bricklayer is a poet. Anything has the potential to qualify as poetry, just as anything has the potential to qualify as art -- and aren't the two words, poetry/art, interchangeable?
I once saw a plastered brick wall upon which an imprisoned yet innocent man had scribbled words for help he knew wasn’t going to arrive, had written of the injustice dealt to him, had carved a simple rhyme about the price of freedom. Those who had built his wall had done so under duress, for they were innocent prisoners themselves, just as he was. That scribbler and those bricklayers were poets: They lived in chaos but had managed to preserve aspects of their dignity as a testament to the liberty and righteous victory the human spirit strives towards.
The game between Argentina and France was nail-biting, absolutely and remarkably nail-biting. Despite my Francophile tendencies, I was solidly on the side of Argentina. But I never stopped to consider as poetry the game’s facets of athleticism and strategy, although the notion of poetic justice and karma did occur to me. However, leave it to you, a much superior poet than a lot of poets can ever be, to move a few steps back from that dizzying dance and ponder a deeper meaning, distil the essence of what Argentina gave us, a win of beauty with a loveliness that won’t pass into nothingness.
“Some shape of beauty moves away the pall from our dark spirits,” said Keats, and yes, as you say, to paraphrase what you say, humankind is capable of transcending our gloomy days, and this was proof. Art and poetry, order from disorder, these are but some of the delights we can create. A remarkable essay, Mr. NZ Doc!!!
Merry Christmas Manny.
I love how you compare these physical skills to poetry because I have always seen it that way myself.
Before I developed CFS, I used to be a boxer. Though from an external viewers perspective it's all a bunch of brutal blows, pounding thumps, busted lips. From the boxers perspective, it's actually something more aligned to poetry in motion. The way a duck and weave evades a blow whilst simultaneously loading up the counter strike. The jab extends just far enough to load the following right cross. The feet, flittering with small but methodically placed steps, positioning you ever closer and yet just outside of the reach of retaliation with a clever play on angles. And with practice how these movements blur together into a smoothe, almost seamless display of prowess. It too felt like poetry. Not just a pugilist, but a poet who spat a thousand flying fists into his rivals face.
beautifully -- poetically! -- articulated Conway, thank you. And I agree with you about boxing; when a bout becomes that smooth seamless display, that fluid dance, we know we are in a different realm.
Conway Judge, what an eloquent description!
Thank you, I think the post rekindled, or at least reminded me of my love of poetry in its many forms. How Manny compared poetry to movement and actions. Because it often isn't compared by other that same way, but I always felt they were comparable. I just couldn't easily explain how or why.
Reflecting on the movement of the verse, whether real or metaphorical. The rhythm, rate and those pauses. The long pauses that build suspense. Then the sudden cascade of action that drops like a thundering clap as the verse morphs into a waterfall of heavy stormy scurrying. Until eventually it patters out again quietly into nothing but a long silence. Essentially dying and then dead.
The brief life the verse possessed might have only been for a few minutes, or even only seconds. But in it's short life there existed within it a soul. And when a verse, movement, metaphor or action has a soul. It is alive. Whether inanimate or not, doesn't really matter. That brief life possessed by it is beautiful and meaningful. Maybe just to me. Maybe it has meaning to others too. But there is something about it all that makes it more than what it is and what it appears to be. And I love that.
Vamos Poesia!
On the subject of poiesis, "is a bricklayer a poet?" Hmmm ... That's a brilliant question! When a bricklayer creates something inspiring, a thing of beauty, let’s say a sheltering adobe home, or a fireplace for warmth, perhaps with bricks that he or she has made, then yes, that bricklayer is a poet. Anything has the potential to qualify as poetry, just as anything has the potential to qualify as art -- and aren't the two words, poetry/art, interchangeable?
I once saw a plastered brick wall upon which an imprisoned yet innocent man had scribbled words for help he knew wasn’t going to arrive, had written of the injustice dealt to him, had carved a simple rhyme about the price of freedom. Those who had built his wall had done so under duress, for they were innocent prisoners themselves, just as he was. That scribbler and those bricklayers were poets: They lived in chaos but had managed to preserve aspects of their dignity as a testament to the liberty and righteous victory the human spirit strives towards.
The game between Argentina and France was nail-biting, absolutely and remarkably nail-biting. Despite my Francophile tendencies, I was solidly on the side of Argentina. But I never stopped to consider as poetry the game’s facets of athleticism and strategy, although the notion of poetic justice and karma did occur to me. However, leave it to you, a much superior poet than a lot of poets can ever be, to move a few steps back from that dizzying dance and ponder a deeper meaning, distil the essence of what Argentina gave us, a win of beauty with a loveliness that won’t pass into nothingness.
“Some shape of beauty moves away the pall from our dark spirits,” said Keats, and yes, as you say, to paraphrase what you say, humankind is capable of transcending our gloomy days, and this was proof. Art and poetry, order from disorder, these are but some of the delights we can create. A remarkable essay, Mr. NZ Doc!!!
What a beautiful commentary, which adds to the entire topic: thank you so much!