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Poetry is difficult to define, and I won’t try. Every poem is different; every poet is different from every other.

As an art, it can effectively invoke a range of emotions in the reader and the poet. The poets I know are intense and often emotional about their work. They live in their heads.

The meaning of a poem is sometimes only apparent to the poets themselves. Poet is an interior art form; it’s written usually by the poet for him or herself. Poets are notorious for living in poetry and working outside of the mainstream.

Poetry can be presented in several forms— from traditional rhymed poems such as sonnets to contemporary free verse.

Poetry, wrote Robert Frost, who should know, “is the deification of reality. Poetry is plucking at the heartstrings and making music with them. The crown of literature is poetry. Reality only reveals itself when a ray of poetry illuminates it.”

For several years, it has been my privilege to watch our young friend (and sheep shearer) Ian McRae struggle and work hard to understand the poetry that was turning his soul and mind upside down. It was chewing him up inside, and he needed to come out. He has, and it shows.

When we met, he refused to identify himself as a poet. He no longer feels the need to do that.

Last night, he came to dinner and read a new poem that was a giant leap forward to the people present who were listening.

He is a natural poet, and his work speaks to that. Other people are noticing it. Ian is one of those creatives who will hang on until he gets it right. What a gift to see that happening. He even looks like a poet now; it’s all over his face.

This has liberated him in many ways. He often writes, has found a poetry group to join, and is taking his first college class in poetry and creative writing.

I admire Ian, not really as a mentor but as a friend. I look forward to his visits and enjoy hearing his poems and watching his emotions as he reads them. I decided to try to capture this in pictures.

Ian has joined the small and committed community of young poets. He is, along with a local poet who is a friend, a regular Friday dinner partner.

Last night, I gave him three new poetry books and some shaving equipment. He uses his blade for so long that he sometimes cuts himself. We can fix that.

Poetry is an emotional thing for Ian, and when he reads a new poem, as he often does when he comes to dinner, his face shows the emotion of a poet and the intensity of poetry. I’m not a poet, but I know a few poets who are relaxed when reading their work. I love watching his face while he reads.

I took a bunch of pictures while Ian read his new work last night, and I think they form a compelling portrait of the intensity of poetry and the poet.

Ian is the real deal, and it is wonderful for him to have the courage to put his work out there and work hard to improve it and learn.

I admire him and am proud to call him a friend.

Here are six portraits of Ian reading a poem in our living room Friday night. Surprisingly, they were taken by my new macro camera in poor light.

They tell his story in images better than I could do in words. It’s also a new kind of portrait for me, and I like it. Ian feels the music in his poetry, and poetry and music are cousins to me.

 

“Poetry and beauty are always making peace. When you read something beautiful, you find coexistence; it breaks walls down.” —Mahmoud Darwish.

 

 

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.”
― Robert Frost

“What is that you express in your eyes? It seems to me more than all the print I have read.”
― Walt Whitman

“You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile, the world goes on.
Meanwhile, the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile, the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over, announcing your place
in the family of things.”
― Mary Oliver

 

“Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.”
― T.S. Eliot.

I loved seeing the range of emotions in Ian’s face as he read his poems. They are, to me, beautiful flowers in a different form.