Poetry is the world beyond the edge of a cliff. There is a little man standing on the edge of this cliff. He isn’t really a little man, only in comparison to the cliff. But he is standing on the edge of the cliff where everything stops. All the everyday rules that we subconsciously follow, unnoticed, sewn into every seam of our bodies. All the rules of creativity and words and the ever so particular way they should be strung and knotted together. Poetry is the world the little man parachutes into in search of something more. Something less constant than rules or solid ground. In search of an amazing adventure. In search of emotions that he can’t find in the repetition of every day. Something new and exciting. Powerful and intense.
So the little man breaks the rules and jumps off the cliff and all of a sudden, suspended in the poetry of the air he can weave together words like the fragments of the wind are breaking under his touch, rearranging themselves to form the clouds. Words that, while standing sturdy upon the compressed dirt of the earth, seem nonsensical, or don’t seem to fit. Yet, while floating in, and filling himself with a measureless stretch of sky, they form constellations of stars on his heart, and he can see and feel these words even brighter than he ever could before. And the poetry starts to write just as much of the man, as the man writes poetry.