At times it is time to reflect on the role of the poet –
To praise beauty where they find it? To satisfy some urge?
To find beauty in anything? Perhaps not –
What of truthfulness; to portray the world as it is?
To cast their humble light
On a world where shadows are many,
And thus strive to end the night.
But since when has a poem saved the world,
With revelation or some such thing?
Not for near a hundred years!
So a more selfish answer is the key.
The poet writes to be the poet.
I write to be more me.
The philosophy of art fascinates me, as regular readers know. It is always pertinent to ask ‘why do I do this?’ I started this blog so that I would be compelled to write more regularly at a time when I was unsure about whether I should bother. Since then I’ve written an absurd number of poems for it, and am almost at the stage when I need to invest in a new poem-folder to contain the overspill. But the reason cannot just be ‘because I must continue to write this blog’ – and nor am I satisfied that poetry is to fulfil myself alone, because I share it with readers! So, what’s the point of poetry? Or any other art form? Any thoughts would be appreciated.
The Hapless Neo-Romantic