For the erasure prompt today, I used a random paragraph from my blog post on poetry...because I could not come up with an adequate descriptive one...!
And contrary to some popular opinion, we poets do not live in a grandiose world of our own making. As a poet, you are intrinsically attuned to the world as it is, not removed from it. We render it in language that shines a light on its silent secrets, illuminates and releases its burden of unnoticed glamours. Poetry is an expression of living, a testament of being here and feeling alive, a 'life-cherishing force' as Mary Oliver notes. And it is not the pursuit of the dreamy, or the airy-fairy, or a part-time past-time. It is a worthy discipline. I love how Mark Strand put it that: 'life makes writing poetry necessary to prove I really was paying attention.' In our finer moments, poetry is what we all do, what we all feel; that which quickens out heartbeat and bestows on us a true sense of being alive. Poets are just people who pledge their lives to this course, who take the time to record in verse (to seek, as Coleridge said 'the best words in the best order') the amazement of life they witness. How can any of this be sometimes looked upon with smug derision by certain people? (Cynic, thy name is critic!)
http://a-blog-of-ones-own.blogspot.ie/2015/07/the-sense-of-sensibility-on-being-poet.html
In a grandiose world
intrinsically attuned
to its silent secrets,
a testament
of feeling
is the pursuit
of the dreamy;
worthy moments
what we all do,
what we all feel.
Being alive
pledge
to record
the amazement.
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