Train Talk

I met a delightful gentlemen on board a train yesterday as we both traveled home from New York City.

Normally very few people talk to those they are sitting beside. I don't know why that is for there is so much to learn from shared conversation. People seem not to want to bother another or they are occupied with their own troubles and thoughts.

This was not the case for me. I sat down next to a guy who was reading the Times and he offered me a section of the paper. That started an innocuous conversation that morphed into a full hour plus of pleasurable exchange.

Our commonalities were books, art and poetry. Not bad for a quick association. For this post I will focus on poetry. We both lamented that the old style of poetry that couples with rhyme and meter is not the norm today and from there we shared experiences of poetic rejection and accomplishment.

I will always be a proponent of classical poetry.

President John F. Kennedy spoke at the dedication of the Robert Frost Library. He said:

“When power leads man towards arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitation. When power narrows the areas of man’s concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of his existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses. For art establishes the basic human truth which must serve as the touchstone of our judgment.”

I would add to that…

Poetry precipitates emotion into words.

Poetry embraces the perceived pain of life and breaks it down into soft images of understanding and it takes the joy of life and transcends it into a sustaining ecstasy of imagination.

It amplifies the tiny specks of grace from the minutia of things beautiful and allows us to be it, if only for the moment of appreciation.

Poetry clarifies and sometimes condemns. It magnifies the inner magic of feelings and encourages the soul to rejoice in the shared awareness of another’s insight and makes it our own.

Poetry laughs and cries and brings the sensual into an undulating body of words and it holds sometimes forever, an emotion long past, a desire forgotten, a wish remembered or a splendor that’s vanished in the illusion of time.

Poetry is a link to the Divine within each of us and to the demons of our imagination. It allows introspection without pity and effacement without fear of obscurity.

It is intellect and spirit wedded in the sacredness of creation. I believe it is agape love at the purest verbal level.

I hope I have more conversations with my new friend from the train.