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More Ferlinghetti...
Since I got such a great response for "Challenges to Young Poets", here's another favourite of mine from Ferlinghetti....
What Is Poetry? -- Lawrence Ferlinghetti
There are no doubt as many definitions of poetry as there are poems. Perhaps more, since there are more poetry professors and critics than there are poets. Perhaps there's a need in the new century for some new definitions. Or perhaps the golden oldies will hold up better than any. Risking the derision of postmodern eggheads, I'll put some of my old ones and some of my new ones to the test of the twenty-first century:
Poetry is news from the frontiers of consciousness.
Poetry is what we would cry out upon awaking in a dark wood in the middle of the journey of our life.
A poem is a mirror walking down a street full of visual delight.
Poetry is the shook foil of the imagination. It should shine out and half blind you.
Poetry is the sun streaming down in the meshes of morning.
Poetry is white nights and mouths of desire.
Poetry is made by dissolving halos in the ocean of sound.
Poetry is the street talk of angels and devils.
Poetry is a sofa full of blind singers who have put aside their canes.
Poetry is the anarchy of the senses making sense.
Poetry is the voice of the fourth-person singular.
Poetry is all things born with wings that sing.
A poem should arise to ecstasy, somewhere between speech and song.
Poetry is a voice of dissent against the waste of words and the mad plethora of print.
Poetry is what exists between the lines.
Poetry is made with the syllables of dreams.
Poetry is far, far cries upon a beach at nightfall.
Poetry is a lighthouse moving its megaphone over the sea.
Poetry is a picture of Ma in her Woolworth bra looking out a window into a secret garden.
Poetry is an Arab carrying colored rugs and birdcages through the streets of a great metropolis.
A poem can be made of common household ingredients. It fits on a single page yet it can fill a world and fits in the pocket of a heart.
Poetry is pillow-thought after intercourse.
The poet is a street singer who rescues the alley cats of love.
Poetry is the distillation of articulate animals calling to each other over a great gulf.
Poetry is the dialogue of statues.
Poetry is the sound of summer in the rain and of people laughing behind closed shutters down a narrow street.
Poetry is the incomparable lyric intelligence brought to bear upon fifty-seven varieties of experience.
Poetry is a high house echoing with all the voices that ever said anything crazy or wonderful.
Poetry is a subversive raid upon the forgotten language of the collective unconscious.
Poetry is a real canary in a coal mine, and we know why the caged bird sings.
Poetry is the shadow cast by our streetlight imaginations.
Poetry is the voice within the voice of the turtle.
Poetry is the face behind the face of the race.
Poetry is made of night thoughts. If it can tear itself away from illusion, it will not be disowned before the dawn.
Poetry is made by evaporating the liquid laughter of youth.
Poetry is a book of light at night.
Poetry is the final gestalt of the imagination.
Poetry should be emotion recollected in emotion.
Words are living fossils. The poet should piece the live beast together and make it sing.
A poet is only as great as his ear. Too bad if it is tin.
The poet must be a subversive barbarian at the city gates, constantly questioning reality and reinventing it.
Let the poet be a singing animal turned pimp for an anarchist king.
The poet mixes drinks out of the insane liquors of the imagination and is perpetually surprised that no one staggers.
The poet should be a dark barker before the tents of existence.
Poetry is what can be heard at manholes echoing up Dante's fire escape.
The poet must have wide-angle vision, each look a worldglance, and the concrete is most poetic.
Poetry is not all heroin, horses, and Rimbaud. It is also the whisper of elephants and the powerless prayers of airline passengers fastening their seatbelts for the final descent.
Poetry is the real subject of great prose.
Each poem should be a momentary madness, and the unreal is realist.
Like a bowl of roses, a poem should not have to be explained.
A poem is its own Coney Island of the mind, its own circus of the soul, its own Far Rockaway of the heart.
Poetry should still be an insurgent knock on the door of the unknown.
[San Francisco Chronicle, January 16, 2000]
What Is Poetry? -- Lawrence Ferlinghetti
There are no doubt as many definitions of poetry as there are poems. Perhaps more, since there are more poetry professors and critics than there are poets. Perhaps there's a need in the new century for some new definitions. Or perhaps the golden oldies will hold up better than any. Risking the derision of postmodern eggheads, I'll put some of my old ones and some of my new ones to the test of the twenty-first century:
Poetry is news from the frontiers of consciousness.
Poetry is what we would cry out upon awaking in a dark wood in the middle of the journey of our life.
A poem is a mirror walking down a street full of visual delight.
Poetry is the shook foil of the imagination. It should shine out and half blind you.
Poetry is the sun streaming down in the meshes of morning.
Poetry is white nights and mouths of desire.
Poetry is made by dissolving halos in the ocean of sound.
Poetry is the street talk of angels and devils.
Poetry is a sofa full of blind singers who have put aside their canes.
Poetry is the anarchy of the senses making sense.
Poetry is the voice of the fourth-person singular.
Poetry is all things born with wings that sing.
A poem should arise to ecstasy, somewhere between speech and song.
Poetry is a voice of dissent against the waste of words and the mad plethora of print.
Poetry is what exists between the lines.
Poetry is made with the syllables of dreams.
Poetry is far, far cries upon a beach at nightfall.
Poetry is a lighthouse moving its megaphone over the sea.
Poetry is a picture of Ma in her Woolworth bra looking out a window into a secret garden.
Poetry is an Arab carrying colored rugs and birdcages through the streets of a great metropolis.
A poem can be made of common household ingredients. It fits on a single page yet it can fill a world and fits in the pocket of a heart.
Poetry is pillow-thought after intercourse.
The poet is a street singer who rescues the alley cats of love.
Poetry is the distillation of articulate animals calling to each other over a great gulf.
Poetry is the dialogue of statues.
Poetry is the sound of summer in the rain and of people laughing behind closed shutters down a narrow street.
Poetry is the incomparable lyric intelligence brought to bear upon fifty-seven varieties of experience.
Poetry is a high house echoing with all the voices that ever said anything crazy or wonderful.
Poetry is a subversive raid upon the forgotten language of the collective unconscious.
Poetry is a real canary in a coal mine, and we know why the caged bird sings.
Poetry is the shadow cast by our streetlight imaginations.
Poetry is the voice within the voice of the turtle.
Poetry is the face behind the face of the race.
Poetry is made of night thoughts. If it can tear itself away from illusion, it will not be disowned before the dawn.
Poetry is made by evaporating the liquid laughter of youth.
Poetry is a book of light at night.
Poetry is the final gestalt of the imagination.
Poetry should be emotion recollected in emotion.
Words are living fossils. The poet should piece the live beast together and make it sing.
A poet is only as great as his ear. Too bad if it is tin.
The poet must be a subversive barbarian at the city gates, constantly questioning reality and reinventing it.
Let the poet be a singing animal turned pimp for an anarchist king.
The poet mixes drinks out of the insane liquors of the imagination and is perpetually surprised that no one staggers.
The poet should be a dark barker before the tents of existence.
Poetry is what can be heard at manholes echoing up Dante's fire escape.
The poet must have wide-angle vision, each look a worldglance, and the concrete is most poetic.
Poetry is not all heroin, horses, and Rimbaud. It is also the whisper of elephants and the powerless prayers of airline passengers fastening their seatbelts for the final descent.
Poetry is the real subject of great prose.
Each poem should be a momentary madness, and the unreal is realist.
Like a bowl of roses, a poem should not have to be explained.
A poem is its own Coney Island of the mind, its own circus of the soul, its own Far Rockaway of the heart.
Poetry should still be an insurgent knock on the door of the unknown.
[San Francisco Chronicle, January 16, 2000]