2023-08-29 07:05:00
Poetry is sand between the fingers of reason, an enigma always on the verge of being deciphered. Perhaps in this “about to” is the key to a frustrated hunt –imminence and glimpse–, a glimpse of a drawing in the sand “about to” be erased by the wave. In a recent talk about why write poetry, a participant asked me if I believe in poetry written with the help of artificial intelligence (AI). I confess that I have no answer.
Our time is the time of the machine revolution. AI may be the answer to that question, can machines think?, which has haunted the human mind since it searched for its first tool to alleviate body fatigue. The word, alpha and omega of the human being, is the only sap of poetry. Exploration guide of our infinities. Decipherer of mysteries being her incarnation as she is. Time violation.
Poetry has been assimilating the changes that have occurred in the human spirit throughout history. Paul Éluard believed that this flame that illuminates and blinds, which is poetry, will always be capable of absorbing “the best of humans”, and what of the worst? Each poet founds the poetic art of him. Why write poetry? Perhaps to look at the bottom of the night, execrate wars and plunder, to know that we are not alone in our self-exiles and bad weather.
What is poetry? I let Aldo Pellegrini tempt an answer: “Poetry –he says– has a door hermetically closed for imbeciles, but wide open for the innocent… Of course, the people are the potential possessors of the supreme attitude: innocence. The innocent, unconscious or not, moves in a world of values (love, in the first place), the imbecile moves in a world in which the only value is given by the exercise of power.
“Poetry without you nothing would exist / we would not hear the rumor of time / undermine our hearts… / Nor would the word God exist / with which we name our helplessness” (JCE).
#Poetry