The Poet's Motivation

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The Poet's Motivation

Postby Zarn Ishtare » Sun Feb 18, 2007 11:00 pm

*It's a work in progress, folks*


The Poet’s Motivation


I have taken it upon myself to use this assignment to explain something which seems to be rather misunderstood or mislabeled, that is, the motivation of a poet, taken from my own personal experiences and my own private considerations. As a poet, I’ve been witness to everything I describe in the following words, and I hope that by explaining this portion of human existence more people will understand the Why of poets and poetry, not just the What.

To be an artist, one must produce something based on two perspectives, the intra-personal and the extra-personal, or the inner world of the spirit and mind and the outer world of human society. As a poet, I live particularly in that inner world, where nature follows only the laws set by myself, and where I must know the inner-workings of my own heart, as well as the heart of others, for as a poet I have to be empathetic to the human condition, to both great joys and terrible sorrows. Therefore, for as a poet there is no greater moment than when that spirit of emotion and power reaches into my own heart, awakening passion like a spark of creation.

In my experience, it is a rare moment, that amazing feeling that motivates my writing. In short: Inspiration is the grand moment, a perfect instant in which the poet feels out of himself, when for a moment, a humble writer may feel he has glimpsed the secret heart of God, a special second in which life is worth living, people worth loving, the world worth protecting and caring for. Like a heady wine, like true love, like salvation is Inspiration to the poet, and whatever it is that inspires me becomes a holy and sacred thing, which remains untarnished in memory.


I have often been told that poets were maniacs, manic-depressives, or insane. In reality, I have not disagreed, nor have other great poets through the ages. Poe, Byron, and Shakespeare were all considered greatly filled with sorrow, so much so that living among others people became an unbearable thing. But I have a contrary outlook, for being a poet I understand the perspective most writers face... After all, if you had felt something beyond yourself, like true love wouldn’t you be mournful if told you might see your beloved husband or wife three times a year, or three times in three years? It’s the same feeling when coming “downâ€
With your doubt, all is comfort
We are all as we appear
No more questions left unanswered
No more wonder, no more fear
Nothing is beauty, nothing's feeling
Blood where there once was a soul
So I ask you, prove yourself
Make me believe that you are whole
Zarn Ishtare
 
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Location: HELL HATH NO FURY, AT ALL.

Postby Anna Mae » Mon Mar 05, 2007 6:01 pm

Zarn wrote:I must know the inner-workings of my own heart, as well as the heart of others

Do you mean 'the hearts of others' or do you use that form in order to refer to society once again?

Zarn wrote:Poe, Byron, and Shakespeare were all considered greatly filled with sorrow, so much so that living among others people became an unbearable thing.

'Other' I presume.

Zarn wrote:But I have a contrary outlook, for being a poet I understand the perspective most writers face...

Do you mean the perspective from which they must view the world, or the perspective that they must encounter that others have?

Zarn wrote:poetry that makes your eyes wet with unshed tears

Do you mean that it brings you merely to the verge of tears, or that it brings up emotions that you had not been able to fully experience/express before?

[quote]Like when I first heard this song or that band’s latest single, it would be like falling in love, a magical moment…I would descend into a state of serene peace or flamboyant joy, weep when the song was a lament and hoop and holler for joy when it spoke of good and hopeful things. It is a pleasure that comes terribly close to pain, because in a moment like that, I would be suddenly saddened, because each time I heard the song, or read a poem, I would feel less and less of it, as I stopped enjoying the poem and instead searched for the feeling the accompanied it, till the song was dull in my ears and my heart wounded for lack of that great feeling, that potent desire called “Inspirationâ€
[SIZE="4"][color="DarkSlateBlue"]God has called me to mission work in Paraguay and Brazil. I may return to CAA someday. God bless all of you![/color][/SIZE]

[i]Two vast and trunk-less legs of stone stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, half sunk, a shattered visage lies. Round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare the lone and level sands stretch far away. On the pedestal these words are inscribed:

“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!â€
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Anna Mae
 
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