Eros possesses the writer. That most ancient god of desire imbues the wordsmith with a love of language. The writer is enthusiastic, literally god-filled. Divine desire haunts her soul, inspires madness in the elusive pursuit of the perfect phrase, insatiably compels her toward the ever-receding, ungraspable phantom of the knowable unknown. Each word is a precipice, each sentence an abyss. She reels, unbalanced by vertigo before each edge. With leaps of faith, she flees and yet pursues at once the daemon of desire, both lover and beloved.
Yet language never satisfies, however loved. It ever leaves a longing in the writer's heart. Eros tantalizes; words deceive. The sacred vision flickers, flitters, fades on the horizon. The god taunts love is blind. The writer knows the language of her soul remains untranslatable. Fulfillment of her passion's goal lies just beyond the boundaries of the page.
Writing blurs a clear demarcation between poetry and prose. A gossamer veil enshrouds its mystery. The cloak, like bacchanalian wine, clouds understanding. A tip of the goblet perfects, however briefly, a crystalline insightful peek underneath the lifted corner of the veil. A fleeting glance reveals: in vino veritas. This passing moment of intoxication brings clarity. The mellow warmth of ambrosial fermentation imparted by divinity enticingly promises what no mere mortal may obtain. A single sip more of the wine unmasks the ruse. The magician's sleight of hand deceives. The dancing revelers cry and drag the drunken writer swaying from the stage. Eroticism fills the air and whirl is all. Dionysus' dance is truth and poetry his song. Poetry possesses prose; it never is the other way around. The god prevails.
The German word Dichtung combines the English meaning of poetry and prose. Dichtung is almost always translated as poetry, as in the title of Goethe's great autobiography "From My Life: Poetry and Truth" ("Dichtung und Wahrheit"). In the broader German word poetry does not only mean rhythmic, metered or rhyming form but includes the kind of prose that English might term literary, artistic or creative. Dichtung does not distinguish between the two words but embraces them. So taking my cue from the more encompassing German term, I will argue that writing poetry far surpasses prose in difficulty.
Prose in English may certainly be difficult to write. Beautiful, creative expression rises to poetic distinction. But common prose includes such types of writing as newspaper journalism, technical documentation, legal briefs, instructional manuals, persuasive essays or scholarly books. All of these can and should be written clearly and communicate effectively. It's no snap writing anything well. And there is certainly no shortage of good prose in this sense of the word. But such writing is rarely poetic. Many a hack can crank out prose. It can be, and often is, merely prosaic, to use an etymologically linked word. This is not again by any means to say that much good prose is not poetry, or Dichtung. Quality fiction and a great deal of literary non-fiction are without doubt the kinds of prose that are also poetry. To write this prose-poetry is as difficult and requires as much skill as crafting poetry in the narrower sense of the English word.
Poetry proper, in English usage, may be either rhyming or free verse. Exceptional poetry is difficult to write and rare. A good vocabulary, an ear for tone, a feeling for rhythm and a knack for rhyme all play a part. Lyricism, assonance, alliteration and metaphor but most of all a felicity for language are critical to writing poetry that is compelling, that has emotional impact, that provokes new thoughts, that conveys important ideas. Reading poetry can be a powerful experience. Getting it right is hard.
Of course there is some pretty bad poetry out there. Novice poets often think that rhyming lines are the most important aspect of a poem. Some people only like formal, rhyming poetry, although much great poetry, ancient and modern, is free verse. Forgetting that the beauty of language and the content the poem (that is, its conveyance of some truth or the provocation of some deep emotion) are equally if not more important, some poets sacrifice linguistic power to preset form. Good poems rarely reveal their meaning upon first reading. They may be exasperatingly difficult to discern, and the reader's patience may be sorely tried. Still, the experience of good poems deepens with each reading. Inexperienced or bad poets sometimes pull out a rhyming dictionary, determined to force a sentimental rhyme at the expense of artistry.
It really ain't hard
To be like the Bard.
All you got to do
Is to your heart be true.
I wrote that as quickly as it took me to type it. Schlocky at best, isn't it? Many rock and rap songs use this rhyming-at-all-cost technique, clearly to the detriment of anything significant. It is, sadly, still poetry because it follows a traditional English form. But poetry, as I have asserted, is an inclusive term: it derives from the eros of language, the passionate pursuit of elusive desire. Grappling with words, honing them, shaping them, polishing them loving them and hating them these are the poet's life.
Good poetry may blossom from a moment of inspiration but more often that inspiration is only a seed that must be cultivated, lovingly tended and nourished. It's hard, disciplined work. A poet rarely feels she's gotten it just right when it's finally grown to fruition. From germination to harvest, she wrestles with the seasons of her soul and battles the brambles and weeds of her thoughts. But she is in her garden, working the ground she loves, tilling the soil of her passion.
And with her in the garden is the god of desire.