Poetry is a weird thing. Sometimes, it’s like a wall. Unapproachable, looming, dangerous. A wall of text with veiled meanings and allegories wrapped within allusions and neatly tucked away behind alliterations. Sometimes, it’s unassuming. Like a silky robe waving in the winds of my perceptions. Rarely is it in between. It is digestible, but not easy. It’s like a fantastic tender brisket. You have to slow cook it for 6-8 hours but once you do it melts into your mind and becomes seamless.
I would argue that’s the sweet spot. That’s when reading poetry transcends words on paper. Transcends language and meaning and becomes something different. It can become something not of this world, a neat little bundle occupying its own space.
The words have a meaning, but they also have a sound, and the sound itself has a meaning. A different meaning. A meaning that is unrelated to what the poem is about. It’s lyrical, pensive, and inviting, but also sinister at the very edges of its existence. That’s what makes the poem so delicious. Maybe it’s about a man enjoying nature, maybe it’s about death, maybe it’s a suicide note, but it’s also musical and enchanting and engrossing. It’s digestible, but it has to be slow cooked first. The words have to play in your head. You have to say it out loud. It’s more than just words on paper.
Eytan
The Junction Journal 