Poetry

Listen while you read:  https://youtu.be/bFG-buhIDEA

I kneel down and say grace for the comforts the world bestows on me
And the great corporations providing our every need
And those big neon signs telling us what to eat
And every shop window goods are designed to please
Oh, but I ask
Where is the poetry?

I'm looking at the sign that says, "Have a good day."
Well, I got too much on my mind and so many questions that get in the way
Everybody's looking for perfection
Once I heard a wise man say, "To get, sometimes you have to give away."

Where is the poetry?

~  Ray Davies

You remember The Kinks, right?  Well, Ray Davies is still at it!  His latest, Americana, will be released on April 21, but "Poetry" is a teaser.  With backup by The Jayhawks, the song has a pop-rock feel to it, but Davies' commentary on America's fascination with materialism is way more profound than pop-rock would allow.  Davies ponders a search for beauty in a world obsessed by things as opposed to ideas.

I am at an age where material possessions have come into question.  While, like most everyone, I spent decades furnishing my lifestyle with comfort and convenience and eye appeal, I have begun the arduous task of downsizing, economizing, and finding new homes for my worldly possessions.  It's harder than it sounds.  But letting go, when my loss benefits someone else, is liberating in a way I never would have imagined.  While I know it will take me years to get to a place where I feel comfortable about this, I am ready to embark on the effort.

But Davies does not tackle the problem of American excess in isolation.  He counters materialism with the simple question, "Where is the poetry?"  I think I know where it is.  I have encountered it in many places, some far from home and some in my own backyard.  I have found poetry on a hike to Delicate Arch in Utah, in the turquoise waters of the Caribbean, at the base of waterfalls in Pennsylvania and Australia, in a redwood grove in northern California, in a rainforest in Costa Rica, on a stubbled autumn cornfield across the street from my northern home.  I have experienced poetry while riding a mule into Bryce Canyon, floating in a hot-air balloon over the red rocks of Sedona, observing herons and anhingas at a Florida bird sanctuary, and while pondering the depths of a crater lake in Oregon.  I have felt poetry in the waves crashing on the both the east and west shores of my country, and in the exercise of planting a garden in my backyard and watching the magical growth of plants that will sustain me all summer long.

The poetry is there, if you are willing to look for it.  Personally, I don't think it exists in a piece of Ivanka Trump jewelry, but that's just me.  Set me down in a National Park, and I will show you some poetry.

Where is your poetry?