Poetry is a kinetic arrangement of static syllables.

Nothing happens... but first a dream.

Poetry is a plan for a slit in the face of a bronze fountain goat and the path of fresh drinking water.

We read Robert Browning's poetry. Here we needed no guidance from the professor: the poems themselves were enough.

And how should a beautiful, ignorant stream of water know it heads for an early release — out across the desert, running toward the Gulf, below sea level, to murmur its lullaby, and see the Imperial Valley rise out of burning sand with cotton blossoms, wheat, watermelons, roses, how should it know?

Poetry is an exhibit of one pendulum connecting with other and unseen pendulums inside and outside the one seen.

What if someone gave a war & Nobody came? / Life would ring the bells of Ecstasy and Forever be Itself again.