I’ve always felt that poetry stands apart from other forms of writing. It occupies a unique space that allows for exceptional freedom, profound personal expression, and what I can only describe as an almost mystical relationship with language and inspiration. While I appreciate novels, essays, and articles, poetry embodies something distinctive that speaks to me differently.

In my experience, poetry is more deeply inclined toward the artistic, often emerging from inspirational moments that other forms of writing simply don’t access. I’ve found myself suddenly composing lines after overhearing a fragment of conversation, listening to a haunting melody, or witnessing something as ordinary as rain on a window. I’m reminded of Judith Wright’s descriptions of how the Australian landscape would suddenly present itself to her not as scenery but as emotional revelation demanding poetic response. This responsiveness to stimuli feels fundamentally different from the more deliberate approach I take when writing an essay or story.

The personal nature of poetry also distinguishes it in ways I find meaningful. When I write poetry, I move between intense inwardness and outward expression, often surprised by this fluidity. While I might express personal experiences in other writing, poetry embodies a particularly concentrated form of selfhood on the page. I find myself surveying my consciousness, excavating feelings and memories, then transforming these private experiences into language I hope might resonate with others. This movement between the deeply personal and the universally expressive creates a tension I rarely find in other writing forms.

I’ve experienced those moments when poems seem to “drop” on me in flashes of insight. Sometimes I’ll be walking along the beach or waiting for a train when suddenly lines form themselves with an urgency that demands immediate attention. Novelist Tim Winton might spend months constructing a narrative arc, but I’ve had complete poems arrive almost fully formed, requiring only minor adjustments. This sudden crystallisation feels markedly different from the methodical approach I take with other writing projects.

For me, writing poetry emerges from deep within: a visceral need rather than simply an intellectual exercise. I don’t always choose to write poetry; sometimes it feels like poetry chooses me. I understand what Dorothy Porter meant when she spoke of poetry as “a vocation rather than a career.” This sense of necessity distinguishes poetry from articles or reports I might write primarily for practical purposes. The poetic impulse manifests in my life as an existential necessity, a way of processing experiences I can’t fully understand through other means.

What I value most about poetry is its freedom from rigid genre expectations. While my academic writing must follow established conventions, poetry embraces remarkable formal liberty. From traditional forms to experimental approaches, from tight structures to sprawling free verse, I find poetry accommodates extraordinary diversity. This openness creates possibilities unmatched in other writing genres. I might produce a political poem one day, an intimate reflection the next, an experimental language exploration the following week, all while working within this capacious category of “poetry.”

I’ve always been fascinated by poetry’s relationship with language itself. While all my writing employs language, poetry foregrounds language as material in ways other forms don’t. I pay extraordinary attention to sonic qualities, rhythmic patterns, and the physical properties of words when composing poems. Other writing forms typically treat language more transparently, but poetry draws persistent attention to language itself, making me constantly aware of words as both carriers of meaning and as physical, sonic entities.

The differences between poetry and other writing forms don’t suggest poetry’s superiority to me, merely its distinctiveness. Essays offer systematic exploration; novels create immersive worlds; journalism documents reality. Poetry does something else entirely: it creates concentrated moments of language that simultaneously express deeply personal truths while opening spaces for readers. It is about inpulse. Moreover, poetry can simultaneously be personal testimony, cultural preservation, political resistance, and artistic expression, a multidimensional capacity that keeps drawing me back to this unique form of writing.

 

21/3/2025