In poetry, we adults are once again found as infants even in our maternal waters of language. As children, we learned the rules, memorized the guidelines, believed in the principles. But as adults, we saw there were exceptions. The long broad shadows cast down from the sky means nothing to a child newborn, infant unlearned, and tottering toddler wandering. But to the adult, they see the shadow, recognize the vulture’s presence, and discern that carnage lies nigh, unseen, but quite nearby.
So it is with poetry. As children, we learn words, understand them as nouns, verbs, adjectives, etc, then formulate them into sentences, building from these paragraphs, from which we construct essays that are published in books to fill our libraries. Yet poetry befuddles this, looking on with magenta mirth, in fuschia fervency, outside the lines coloring us, calling this cute. Since we humans are mortal, we are finite, thus must interact with the world in a finite manner, measuring and comparing, understanding and perceiving, everything through a finite lens that brings structure and order so that our minds can grasp and interact with things.
Simply, we can not transcend the TL:DR, TMI–we must live in medias res and not beyond, for us to understand things. Thus we have made ideas finite in a language graspable, congealed life into sentences manageable. But poetry befuddles this. Poetry sees your sentences, its commas flowing, its conjunctions connecting, its periods ending–but continues on ignoring these with its stanzas breaking, enjambing, alluding, inferring, yet never quite explicitly declaring distinct points
For poetry is the grammar of fluidity, for within her waves we must wade as we learn again how to swim.
Operam Navate et Natate , Infans Natatus