Why I like some poetry

Poetry, so what?  Prose distillate, power packed words, words lying on the page in three dimension.

The reason I like some poetry is that I can have little lick, sniff and taste of something new or something old to roll around in my mind, without having to eat the whole thing. Poetry is like that, if it is light and easy, but sweet and easy on the mind like a little zephyr bearing birdsong with hints of jasmine, and not some grinding, whirring, thumping of heavy machinery or complex enigmas that make my mind bend and strain at unnatural angles seeking understanding.

I got off on this tangent this morning when I read my morning poem in The Writer’s Almanac by Garrison Keillor, and the poet said “O let this poem be a planet or a haven,” and I realized much of poetry is a bit of a prayer or supplication, wishing for a better place or life, and the poet, always the dreamer, wishing for the dream yet phrasing it in the form of a prayer. I have done it myself unconsciously.