Rhythm

March 12, 2016

Draft Three

I don’t like to walk.

I don’t really like
any kind of exercise.

But there’s
something
rhythmic
about walking
that reminds me
of poetry.

Perhaps the
idea of a
“walk poem”
is redundant,
then, because
poetry is
rhythm.
Walking, too, is
rhythm.

Poetry
without
words.

Some of the
best poetry
might be
without
words.

Poetry is
more than
rhythmic.
Words conjure
emotions
the same way
that music
invokes
emotions.

Something
about music
ties people
together across
time and space,
a continuum
that has
fascinated
poets for
centuries.

But it’s true.
Music bridges
time and space.

Everywhere
on the Earth,
humans create
music. We
could sing
before we
could even talk
as a species:
guttural groans
and chants
evolved
long before
language
ever could.

So we’ve been
singing.
We’ve been
using rhythm
to create music
for thousands
of years, all
across the globe.

Music
conveys things
that we can’t
possibly put
into words.

But, conversely,
words can be
music.

A poem
is probably
the closest
to music
that words
can achieve,
because,
in a poem,
the focus
is not only
on the words
being used,
and the effect
those words
have on
the reader.
Special attention
and care are
given to the
rhythm.

It is the rhythm
that makes
music worth
listening to.

It is the rhythm
that makes the
Star-Spangled Banner
sound stately.
Majestic.

It is the rhythm
that lulls
a child to sleep
on its mother’s lap
in a rocking chair.

And it is the rhythm
that poetry uses
to create the most
profound effects
language can
offer.

Rhythm
is possibly the
strongest force
in the universe.

Rhythm.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

Draft Two

I don’t like to walk.

I don’t really like
any kind of exercise.

It takes too much time,
time that I would
much rather spend
doing something
actually productive.

But some people
in my life
convinced me
that, if you
don’t take time
to be healthy,
you’ll make time
to be sick.

As busy as I am,
I can’t afford
to make time
to be sick.

But I also
can’t afford
to take time
to be healthy.
So here I am,
out walking
while doing
my homework:
creative writing,
a walk poem.

That’s efficiency.

There’s
something
rhythmic
about walking
that reminds me
of poetry.

Perhaps the
idea of a
“walk poem”
is redundant,
then, because
poetry is
rhythm.
Walking, too, is
rhythm.

Poetry
without
words.

Some of the
best poetry
might be
without
words.

Poetry is
more than
rhythmic:
you have words
that conjure
emotions
the same way
that music
invokes
emotions.

Music.
My passion.
Now, if someone
could convince me
that exercise
was poetry,
and that poetry
was music,
well,
I’d be out
walking
every day.

Music is
productive.
I don’t know
if it’s because
it forces you
to think about
yourself and
the people
in your life,
the events
that have
shaped you,
or if it’s just
because it’s
intellectually
stimulating.

Something
about music
ties people
together across
time and space,
a continuum
that has
fascinated
poets
for centuries
longer than
scientists.

But it’s true.
Music bridges
time and space.

Everywhere
on the Earth,
humans create
music. We
could sing
before we
could even talk
as a species:
guttural groans
and chants
evolved
long before
language
ever could.

So we’ve been
singing.
We’ve been
using rhythm
to create music
for thousands
of years, all
across the globe.

Music
conveys things
that we can’t
possibly put
into words.

But, conversely,
words can be
music.

It is this same rhythm
that makes
music worth
listening to.

It is the rhythm
that makes the
Star-Spangled Banner
sound stately.
Majestic.

It is the rhythm
that lulls
a child to sleep
on its mother’s lap
in a rocking chair.

And it is the rhythm
that poetry uses
to create the most
profound effects
language can
offer.

Rhythm
is quite possibly
the strongest force
in the universe.

Rhythm.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

Draft One

I don’t like to walk.

I don’t really like
any kind of exercise.

It takes too much time,
time that I would
much rather spend
doing something
actually productive.

But some people
in my life
try to convince me—
from time to time—
that, if you
don’t take time
to be healthy,
you’ll make time
to be sick.

As busy as I am,
I can’t afford
to make time
to be sick.

But I can’t
really afford
to take time
to be healthy,
so here I am,
going out
for a walk—
doing my homework:
creative writing,
writing
a walk poem.

That’s efficiency.

There’s something
rhythmic
about walking
that reminds me
of poetry.

So, for no
apparent reason,
the idea
of a walk poem
is redundant,
because you’re
walking,
rhythmically,
which is a poem
in and of itself,
just without words.

And then poetry…
a walk poem,
a form of poetry…

I don’t know
where I’m going
with this.

Skip.

Anyway…

The idea
of a walk poem
is redundant,
because
poetry is just
rhythm,
which is
what walking is;
walking is rhythmic,
like poetry,
just without words.

Some of the
best poetry
might be
without words.

Poetry.
Poetry is
rhythmic,
but more than
rhythmic:
you have words
that conjure
emotions
in much
the same way
that music
conjures emotions.

Music.
My passion.
Now, if someone
could convince me
that going out
for a walk
was poetry,
and that poetry
was music,
well,
I’d be out
walking
every day.

Somehow,
music is
productive.

I don’t know
if it’s because
it forces you
to think
about yourself
and the people
in your life,
the events
that have
happened to you,
or if it’s
just because
it’s so
intellectually
stimulating.

There’s something
about music
that ties
people together
across time
and space,
which is an idea
that is,
by definition,
poetic.
It’s even a
poetic cliché,
I might add.

But it’s true.
Music bridges
time and space.

Everywhere
on the Earth,
humans create
music. We
could sing
before we
could even talk
as a species:
guttural groans
and chants evolved
long before
language
ever could.

So we’ve been
singing,
we’ve been
using rhythm
to create music
for thousands
of years, all
across the globe.

Music
conveys things
that we can’t
possibly put
into words.

But, in
the reverse,
words can be
music.

A poem—
it doesn’t matter
what kind—
is probably
the closest thing
to music
that words
can achieve,
because in a
poem, you’re
paying attention
not only
to the words
that you’re using,
and to the effect
that those words
have on
the emotions
of the reader,
but you also pay
special attention
to the rhythm.

And it is
the rhythm
that makes
music worth
listening to.

It is the rhythm
that makes
The Star-Spangled
Banner sound
stately
and majestic.

It is the rhythm
that lulls
a child to sleep
on its mother’s lap
in a rocking chair.

Rhythm
is quite possibly
the strongest
force
in the universe.

And it is the rhythm
that poetry uses
to create
the most profound
effects
in language.

Rhythm.

The rhythm is
the rhythm is
everything.

Rhythm.