Poetry is ....

 Poetry is….

The ohhh much travelled word, written in response to Stephen Fry's 'The Ode Less Travelled'.

Poetry is the Ionian sea and mountains

The sweaty chef, on a furtive break, smoking at sunset

Leaning, silhouetted against the orange sky.

Poetry is the vineyards with slowly ripening fruit

That mellows into wine

As the seasons flow.

Poetry is words placed randomly and wanton

Defiantly tumbling into existence

On a page of paper or a device made overseas.

Poetry is the language of the soul

The discord of the struggle

The expression of the flawed

Trying to communicate

Life’s cliched tapestry

Poetry is words that rebel against the rules

Of time and space and death and limitation

Of a world made of molecules 

And scientific precision.

Poetry shouts in the night 

When all are asleep 

And whispers live to the full

on a dull and dreary day.

There are those that write poetry

Those that ignore it

Those that read it 

And then, there are those that live and breathe it.

© Iona Waters