We come out of our mothers, propagating the intricate and long lines of genes that go back to the beginning of man. Society, community, environment, personal experiences contribute to the formation of our physical growth and characters. Parents, siblings, teachers, lovers, friends, affect our views in life. We keep changing and growing. We are never one thing. Who are we? Who am I? The proper time to define ourselves is after we’re dead.
Maybe that’s how we can look at a poem too. Sure it has a mother. But after it is born it might be quoted, cut up, or translated into another language. It might be edited and interpreted, with or without the poet’s knowledge.
In old China, a painting was considered more valuable if a respected poet put commentary on it. What about poems? Can one poem dialogue with another? Can they argue? Can they metamorphosize? At the end of the day, what’s important is the emergence of something new and exciting out of the ocean of literature. The poet has gifted the world with a poem. May it evolve.
image taken from http://thewritersalleys.blogspot.com
