What's left of Poetry?

Veronica Berenice

I believe that today, poetry is only of use to the privileged and to those who were once young dreamers and thenceforth elderly disenchanted.

Thought, and in this case, poetic thought, requires a large share of time both to generate its original core and to be born, to emerge in a form outside of its progenitor mind; and once produced, it has to go back to its parent as something other from itself, as something different. In order for the life of a thought to go full circle, in its finitude and reaching its scales of eureka, the virtues of an alchemist and of a craftsman are needed: one must be as patient as a fisherman! And of course, one that skilfully throws the bait, and successfully reels in a catch.

I do not think that, as sometimes our heralds of technology proclaim, technical sciences have somehow replaced spiritual sciences. I simply believe that the latter are not that useful anymore. Let me explain, in everyday life of a human being there is such an abundance of information that there is little to no inclination for wondering and asking questions, so much so that they slip away like fish. The unconscious perception is that everything is explained, or at least explainable; everything is definable, measurable, understandable, and verifiable. Despite this, we cannot help but feel content with the status quo of our time. I am, and hopefully my mother, Philosophy, won’t mind, an admirer of the prosperity that science has produced, especially those achievements that led humanity to a greater ethical awareness and spread a higher standard of living.

But can we, given the last considerations, conclude that yes, we are satisfied like this and let that poetic thought that is no longer useful lie lifeless in the grave? And mind you, that when I write “poetic thought”, it stands for all humanities subjects.

Personally, I have naturally felt the profound crisis, like many others, within the system; particularly when I have been dragged into the turbulent whirlpool of a world that does not have the time for delicacy anymore. And all of this while I work tirelessly to surround my existence with sensitive souls – it is not a coincidence that I have set sails for the high seas myself, enlisting and leading this crazy, unlikely, wonderful crew of mine on this vessel called LaLivella.

I believe that today, poetry is only of use to the privileged and to those who were once young dreamers and thenceforth elderly disenchanted. The former are those human beings of sensible nature and education, and therefore can indulge in it daily, refracturing the sand and ash storm of our shallow consumer society; they certainly enjoy it, but without contributing much to its survival.

However, my dear readers, let us not fall on our knees in nihilistic despair. As I have told you before, the time of human affairs has an ironic and brazen cyclical nature..

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