Tide

Poetry washes over one, born as I was in an age where it was not learned, much less recalled, and little read for pleasure. Instead it was dissected, line by line, stanza by stanza – never any talk of metres – for its meaning must be found, and enjoyment destroyed. No time was given to how to recite – perform – it; to locate its beat, its rhythm. It was not drummed into one and I feel the lack, as words of verse, including those much admired, come in...then go out...like a tide. A feeling might remain for a poem or the poet, but the poetry itself does not survive.

Picture credit: The Inrushing Tide, 1885, David James (source: WikiArt).

From journal, April 2022.