1. Poetry According to Gwendolyn MacEwan

2. One of these days after my thousandth poetry reading I’m going to answer The Question right. The question is Why Do You Write. Every time I hear The Question I get this purple blur in front of my eyes, and I fear I will fall down frothing at the mouth and spewing forth saliva and mixed metaphors. You can study it if you want, I’m just the one who gets to do it; or, Don’t ask me I just work here. You know the answer and still I have to say it: Poetry has nothing to do with poetry, Poetry is how the air goes green before thunder, why you live and how you bleed, and The sound you make or don’t make when you die. “ You Can Study It If You Want To” (1987)

3. Poetry Really? Why?

4. What is this thing?  a form of literary art  Because of this fact, we can only guess what the author is trying to say (we have NO way of actually knowing!)  We often place our own emotions into the art  language is used for its aesthetic (beauty) qualities in addition to, or in lieu of, its apparent meaning

5. What is this thing?  We often think that poetry was made “famous” by a bunch of dead guys  Shakespeare, Dylan Thomas, T.S. Elliot, Francis Bacon, William Carlos Williams  This is one of the reasons why poetry is thought of as a high-brow subject that we can’t truly understand  How can we if they are dead??

6. Apparently, this is a “masterwork” so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens. William Carlos Williams (1923)

7. And so is this… In a Station of the Metro The apparition of these faces in the crowd; Petals on a wet, black bough Ezra Pound (1913)

8. What is this thing?  We may also think about cheesy Hallmark cards  “Roses are red, violets are blue” This cards is made for a friend like you.”  This could be why we think of poetry as goofy, a joke  This could be why we think of poetry as goofy, a joke  After reading many cards over the years, I can fully understand why!!

9. Here’s the thing…  However we think of poetry (+/-), we are surrounded by poetry all of the time  Every one of us enjoys poetry  Poetry is, in fact, attainable

10. Read This Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments, love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O no, it is an ever fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wand'ring bark, Whose worth's unknown although his height be taken. Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come, Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom: If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

11. And compare it to this… I was left to my own devices Many days fell away with nothing to show And the walls kept tumbling down In the city that we love Great clouds roll over the hills Bringing darkness from above But if you close your eyes, Does it almost feel like nothing has changed at all? But if you close your eyes, Does it almost feel like you’ve been here before? We were caught up and lost in all of our voices In your pose as the dust settled around us

12. Or this… When the days are cold And the cards all fold And the saints we see Are all made of gold When your dreams all fail And the ones we hail Are the worst of all And the blood’s run stale At the curtain’s call It’s the last of all When the lights fade out All the sinners crawl So they dug your grave And the masquerade Will come calling out At the mess you made They say it’s what you make I say it’s up to fate It’s woven in my soul I need to let you go Your eyes, they shine so bright I wanna save that light I can’t escape this now Unless you show me how

13. And this… Now and then I think of when we were together Like when you said you felt so happy you could die Told myself that you were right for me But felt so lonely in your company But that was love and it's an ache I still remember You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness Like resignation to the end, always the end So when we found that we could not make sense Well you said that we would still be friends But I'll admit that I was glad it was over But you didn't have to cut me off Make out like it never happened and that we were nothing And I don't even need your love But you treat me like a stranger and that feels so rough No you didn't have to stoop so low Have your friends collect your records and then change your number I guess that I don't need that though Now you're just somebody that I used to know

14. So… Is poetry as inaccessible as we often think? Or, are we psyching ourselves out and making it harder for ourselves?