Ars poetica poems are a time-honored tradition within poetry. What is this thing we call “the art of poetry”? In what particular way does poetry matter to us? For the final day of Cincinnati Poetry Month, I offer three explorations of the subject, by Deborah Jordan of East Price Hill, Chuck Stringer of Union, Kentucky, and by me. It has been an honor sharing the poetry of greater Cincinnati with you. Remember that Poetry Month is not the only time of year that we make poetry happen! I hope you will continue to use the Poet Laureate of Cincinnati Events Group to connect to poetry and through poetry. I look forward to hearing your words at a reading soon.
Poetry is about words
encased in feathers and cement.
Poetry is pulling the blinds up on the unexpected
to stare in wonder at a moonlit-shrouded day.
Poetry lies in wait,
invites us to see what’s missing,
barges into our precious privacy,
dissolving it into particles.
Poetry can electrify, stupefy, mortify, and soothe.
Poetry is proof
that we’re practicing being human
Of What We Make Our Poems
Ink, of course, and flecks of skin
on paper remind us who we
are is hatched from who we were,
this film of self now covering
who we will be. Locks of our
mothers’ hair; whiskers plucked,
roots intact, from our fathers’ chins.
And too, our poems are like
our houses. They want more of
us than we had planned to give
them—this one begs for a new
room, a door where we’d framed a
window; another pushes against
rafters, opens us to sky.
No matter what we say, our
poems are not our children.
They quicken outside our bodies,
run from us before they speak.
One poet I knew made his
of river rock and the black
longing between stars. I’ll make
my poems of silence stitched with words.
Pauletta Hansel, from Tangle
(After Jean Nordhaus’s “Of What Do We Make our Homes”)