Poetry is a sheath, a protective shell to protect its creator from the ravages of living in the real world.
No, the poet responds, poetry is a vision the poet sees clearly; the poem is the poet’s effort to share that vision with the world.
Nonsense! The poet is the embodiment of fragility, crafting a cocoon of words.
Not so, counters the poet. It is the opposite; opening oneself to the world through poetry is sometimes an act of courage and humility.
No, it is an act of heinous egotism, bathed in a wash of self-congratulatory torpor.
Aha, says the poet, yours are the words of a poet, are they not?
They may be the words of a poet, as all words are, but I use them differently.
The question, then, the poet replies, is whether words are tools or weapons.
Love this pointless dispute, and actually heard this discussion when I was with my first husband who was a poet. It seemed to crop up at parties fairly often, and of course the conversation lingered on to the wee hours of the morning…yes, it was pointless.
I agree, Susanne.
Depends on the intent.