I'm about to make a confession which may put me on the bad side of quite a few people. I love my muse more than the poetry they inspire. Of course, I love that most which moves me to pick up the pen. Some may empathize with me immediately; others require explanation. My muse moves me to express my thoughts, my emotions in poesie, then challenges me to make my current creation better than the last.
If I most loved poetry, I'd be an enthusiastic and appreciative reader, but not necessarily inspired to write. And being honest, I'd rather be a little known or unknown poet, rather than an anonymous fan of the art. As reader and poet, poetry for me is three dimensional, it is alive, begging to be read, spoken, written, rewritten and performed--liberated from the page. To my muse, as always, I send my love.
Here's my favorite poem again--What's yours?
"I Will Put Chaos into Fourteen Lines" by Edna St. Vincent Millay
I will put Chaos into fourteen lines
And keep him there; and let him thence escape
If he be lucky; let him twist, and ape
Flood, fire, and demon--his adroit designs
Will strain to nothing in the strict confines
Of this sweet Order, where, in pious rape,
I hold his essence and amorphous shape,
Till he with Order mingles and combines.
Past are the hours, the years, of our duress,
His arrogance, our awful servitude:
I have him. He is nothing more or less
Than something simple not yet understood;
I shall not even force him to confess;
Or answer. I will only make him good.
Check out this explanation of the Sonnet form: The Sonnet Form
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