what is poetry?

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poetry is

an experience

of — and beyond —

the body

 

 

poetry is sweet

poetry is naughty

 

 

poetry
embraces
the

e
x
p
a
n
s
i
v
e
n
e
s
s

 

of

expression

 

 

poetry is the teacher

poetry is the lesson

 

 

 

poetry grabs our
hands, &
takes us to
explore
ecstatic
states of
existence

 

 

poetry is
perfect harmony

poetry is
resistance

 

 

 

poetry is

 

 

 

 

movement

motion

stillness

 

 

 

 

poetry is the
magic potion

 

that heals

 

all illness

 

 

 

 

 

 

// poetry is erotic-fully-livin’ innocence //

// poetry is our nature-given essence //

 

 

 

 

 

poetry is something
& somewhere beyond

 

 

sight

touch

taste

smell

sound

 

 

 

poetry is complete

poetry is unbound

 

 

 

poetry

touches

the ancient

poetry

coaxes

the inner child

 

 

poetry is eternal
& everywhere

 

 

 

welcome

to

poetry

gone

wild

The Succulence of Being

by allyssa + vallejo

IMG_0274
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She would lie

on her bed

and dream.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Of a world where she would never hear a child scream, 

save for the moments that felt thrilling and enlivening.

 

 

Like, on a rollercoaster.

Or, opening presents

on Christmas morning. 

 

 

 

 


 

 

Where people

felt free

to enjoy

their bodies,

their sexuality, 

their emotions,

their being,

their unique 

way of

loving. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fruit. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A world where people would enjoy

peaches and pineapples and pears

 

for at least the same amount of time that they would

complain about the weather, or 

 

 how so-and-so and so-and-so

have been spending 

 

a curious amount of time

together.

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

Why, she wondered

did people care

so much

about

the lives

of others?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Did they even care?

 

She thought the word “care” had been misused. 

People had forgotten what it means to care.

 

 

 

 

 

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To care. 

 

To give flowers

for no reason.

 

To walk

with someone

through a

difficult

season.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To commit

high treason

against the

stay-as-you-are-don’t-be-a-star

status

quo. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(She thought everyone deserved to shine.

To shine, to be brilliant.

We are all made of light anyway, she would say.)

 

 

 

 

 

To care…

To care… 

To carry… 

 

 

She knew we were all carriers.

Of story. Of wisdom. Of messages. Of emotion. Of ideas.

 

Of each other. 

 

She knew we were reminders for one another.

Always, reflections.

 


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And only light could do that.

Reflect.

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The

succulence

of

being. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her life mission. 

To master it.

 

She sucked the juice out of every moment.

 

She saw it dripping

from other people’s conversations,

other people’s words. 

She would ever-so-politely ask, “May I have some of that?”

 

And she would slurp and swallow and suck,

and sometimes she would forget

how inappropriate it looked

to those who

didn’t know

how to

savour

anything

anymore.

 

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But, savour, she would.

 

 

 

 

 


Somebody had to be doing it. 

 

 

 

Keeping the art of savouring alive. 

 

 

 

(No one was teaching those classes anymore…)