Procrastadabbler

Today my husband asked, “what makes a poem?” It was an honest question. He had picked up a book of poetry I have been slowly reading – one or two a day. He couldn’t quite make sense of the one he read. “Why is it a poem?” He asked. “It was telling a story.”

I didn’t have an answer for him right away. I’m not sure I do now. What is a poem?

Of course there is the technical definition and of course there are many different types of poems.

But for me, a poem is the attempt to capture the essence of a moment, a feeling, a thought. It is the intent to evoke a feeling or a thought in the reader. It is ephemeral. It is fleeting. It is a single wispy cloud that meanders into the field of blue on a July day.

Reading a poem is like holding water in your hand. It’s cooling, refreshing, shocking, or painful. The physicality of it doesn’t last – it soon drips away or evaporates, but the memory lingers of that moment when something touched you and changed you and that you carry with you forever.

That is what a poem is.