Poems are always intimate, about something personal that touches us. More intimate than prose. How much intimacy can you bear to put on paper, let alone on a monitor screen? How much courage do you need before you show your poems to someone? True, of course it depends on what you’re writing about. If you write about it being a nice day outside and it still rhymes, there’s nothing to worry about. Lawrence Ferlinghetti described it well in his poem: „Constantly risking absurdity and death, whenever he performs above the heads of his audience, the poet like an acrobat climbs on rime to a high wire of his own making…“

Writing poetry is hard for me to grasp, but I love to read it and admire anyone who takes the time to write poetry. I’m not a poet myself, though I have written a few poems. You can read them here: https://romisy.com/poems-from-school-2/

Lawrence Ferlinghetti / from A Coney Island of the Mind

Constantly risking absurdity

                                             and death

            whenever he performs

                                        above the heads

                                                            of his audience

   the poet like an acrobat

                                 climbs on rime

                                          to a high wire of his own making

and balancing on eyebeams

                                     above a sea of faces

             paces his way

                               to the other side of day

    performing entrechats

                               and sleight-of-foot tricks

and other high theatrics

                               and all without mistaking

                     any thing

                               for what it may not be

       For he’s the super realist

                                     who must perforce perceive

                   taut truth

                                 before the taking of each stance or step

in his supposed advance

                                  toward that still higher perch

where Beauty stands and waits

                                     with gravity

                                                to start her death-defying leap

      And he

             a little charleychaplin man

                                           who may or may not catch

               her fair eternal form

                                     spreadeagled in the empty air

of existence

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