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| The Only Conclusion |
I enjoy writing poetry. Some may not call what I write poetry, or
only superficially so. How I know it is
poetry is the sense that there is a right way to say something, and a wrong
way. When the words are on the page, the
sound and sense together clearly are acceptable or not. If not acceptable, trial and error iterations
must continue until is all is well. Sometimes
I will return to a poem that I have thought complete, only to discover a glaring
error. Then iterations must continue
again until there is peace of soul.
There is a Shakespearian play, All’s
Well that Ends Well. This has
been called a problem play, an uneasy blend of tragedy and comedy. After much study, this play brought upon me psychosis
or insight. The only way I could make it
work poetically was through plot transformation. In this case the language was set and
unalterable (in the folio edition).
Interpretation of plot and reevaluation of tone were the only
conceivable variables. This brought upon
me the realization that blindness in human nature is serious and pervasive—a good
lesson to learn however dubious the occasion.
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