I worry about my writings.
I remember my English classes;
English Lit, Poetry, Creative Writing -
all of them beautiful classes,
all of them like going to school
to learn how to sing,-
and I remember how we dissected
everything.
Verbally cutting up every line,
every phrase, every thought,
so that we could possibly study
what was in them -
or what the reasons were
for their being there at all.
It was disgusting.
Missing only the noxious smell
of formaldehyde,
or the chance cutting of one's own finger
with a scalpel, and the annoying sting of that,
we would seek to find the elusive meanings
the hidden reasons,
the thoughts that the writers had,
which, of course, we could not do.
The only reason that a word,
a phrase, a thought,
or a sentence was there,
at that particular place,
in the collection of inked pages,
was because the writer felt that it was right
and that those gatherings of letters,
in the order in which they appeared,
were what was intended,
as they sounded good in the writer's mind.
They conveyed the ideas and thoughts
of the writer,
and they were not meant to be torn apart,
looking for some secret, holy grail
that really wasn't there.
Poetry, especially poetry,
isn't meant to be broken down,
isn't written to be analyzed;
it's meant to inspire the heart without reason,
to touch the soul without understanding.
It is meant to be heard,
as you would hear a symphony
or a favorite song -
for the pure enjoyment of the experience.
Poetry is meant to be read.
Poetry is meant to be tasted.
Poetry is meant to be beauty and artwork
in a different form,
each person getting from it what they see,
what they feel,
what they need.
If my words ever become pages on a shelf,
I pray that they are not there to be torn apart
and scattered across a classroom.
I pray that they are there to be enjoyed,
because someone likes what they say.
That is the reason to read them,
and the reason I have written them,
with those particular words,
is that they were the right words to use.

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Copyright©2017-1999 by Rebecca R. Hammack

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