Abstract: Why would anyone need to hire a poet today? In a world where we always seek meaning and purpose, where usefulness of everything is measured by the results they bring, a poem could be literally the last thing one could need. Yet, a poem has the power to bring a different perspective, to connect us with the depths of our soul that are now unseen. Verse has the power to break the glass through which we see the world, to show us an irrational path that may help us understand the lack of logic in the life that we live. In a utilitarian world, the most useless thing is the thing we need. We need poets. But more importantly, we fear them and those things they can say in verse…
Are poets needed today? A simplistic question that begs for an answer. And the only way to give that answer is to explore human psyche and its needs more deeply.
Today’s utilitarian world is governed by forces that bow to result and what is to be won.
We strive to have things done. We seek more and more.
And that is why today’s world needs the useless more than ever before!
Poems can be emotional.
Poems can be irrational.
Poems can be raw.
Poems can be gentle.
Poems can be meaningless.
Our world is void of emotions. We have learnt to constantly communicate with each other, to express ourselves, to live our life to the fullest, only to trick us into a state that we feel nothing at all in the end. We swim on a surface full of likes and fake perfection, while the depths of our soul crave for affection. A poem can help us trigger things we have forgotten are even there…
Our world is full of logic. We analyze everything to their very end. We need data and detect patterns; we extract rules and laws and then try to formulate theories to explain what is going on. But logic is based on axioms that are unproven – even the most obvious ones. Poetry can help us be irrational again. And see the world with fresh air!
Our world is polished and full of correctness. We never speak out what we feel or what we believe, out of fear of being rude or out of fear for what others think. We never even speak openly to ourselves, out of fear that we might be hurt. Poetry can be raw and just show what is there. With words that can have a real impact, just by conveying the message without anyone to interfere.
Our world is harsh and full of pain. People suffer often in vain. Poems can offer consolation to hurting souls by giving beauty where there is only pain.
We want to believe that our world is meaningless. We strive everyday down a path that we do not understand. We do not know why we live or what death is. We have stopped wondering about existence and being, we have alienated ourselves from philosophy and the miracle of living. Poetry can ignite the spark again in our souls, to bring us in touch with what we knew but now is gone.
The poet will not provide answers. He or she will just illuminate the lost souls. And the poem will serve as a beacon that shows all possible paths – ahead and backwards – leaving to us the decision on where to go. The verse will serve as a hammer that shatters the glass through which we view not only the cosmos but also our internal world.
In that sense, poetry can be therapeutic. Catharsis can be attained when we access our emotions not via a filter but by simply speaking them. And the same applies to all our fears related to existence and death; things that constantly trouble us, but we tend to hide them under a fake cloak of knowledge even though we know nothing besides the things that we feel.
A verse can be just what you need to see clearly in a world obscured by so much light that at the end you see nothing besides a blur. Sometimes we need shadows to decipher forms. Sometimes it is darkness that reveals our inner worlds. Poems could offer that view and make us cry, in a world where we tend to glorify smiles.
I have intentionally left out scientific evidence on the benefits of art.
Art can be therapeutic. That is well established in literature and there are numerous scientific research papers explaining how and why that happens. Art therapy can effectively reduce symptoms of mental disorders like depression or anxiety (Hu et al., 2021). Such therapy has proven to be effective across multiple age groups and settings (Slayton et al., 2010) and, in summary, it can not only improve your mental health but it can also support you in having a better quality of life in general (Shukla et al., 2022).
Since poetry is a form of art, it can surely help in that sense.
But the point of this paper is not to pinpoint the obvious, but to explain something beyond that. Poetry can help in many other ways via altering the philosophical viewpoint we take on this cruel world. Besides just being a form of expression that alleviates anxiety and helps the person’s psyche, poetry – as mentioned above – offers a way to walk down paths we once trod but are now too afraid to even talk of. It is the darkness or irrationality, the terror of non-understanding, the raw emotions that poetry brings to the surface that we need to face a world that is not conveniently logical or understood or friendly, as we hoped it would.
That is why poets are needed!
In today’s world where we seek useful things.
The most useless ones are the ones we need!
(That is why poets are feared by most!)
Speaking in verses, one can express all those things that cannot be expressed or explained. Paradoxically enough, these are the things that we better understand, because they resonate with the weird world in which we stand.
Remember, in the beginning there was the Word.
But before that everything was covered in silence.
And it is this primordial power that drives the cosmos.
Poetry gives a gateway to this force.
Speaking in silence.
Touching the world in which we were born…
Touching something we did not know was still there.
Expressing what we try so hard to avoid…
Destroying the useless need of knowing or understanding.
Reminding us that the cosmos is within us.
Making no sense.
Pain. Happiness. Confusion. Expressed in verse!
References
Hu, J., Zhang, J., Hu, L., Yu, H., & Xu, J. (2021). Art Therapy: A Complementary Treatment for Mental Disorders. Frontiers in Psychology, 12. https://doi.org/10.3389/fpsyg.2021.686005
Shukla, A., Choudhari, S. G., Gaidhane, A. M., & Quazi Syed, Z. (2022). Role of Art Therapy in the Promotion of Mental Health: A Critical Review. Cureus. https://doi.org/10.7759/cureus.28026
Slayton, S. C., D’Archer, J., & Kaplan, F. (2010). Outcome Studies on the Efficacy of Art Therapy: A Review of Findings. Art Therapy, 27, 108-118. https://doi.org/10.1080/07421656.2010.10129660
Few words about the author
Spyridon I. Kakos is a researcher and writer based in Athens, Greece. He initially studied as a chemical engineer and conducted doctoral research for multi-layered printed circuit boards. He has also completed studies in business administration, law and psychology. He has been working as a senior advisor in the IT consulting sector for decades, while at the same time writing actively in the areas of philosophy and poetry. He is the Editor in Chief of Harmonia Philosophica since its inception and manages the Poetic Philosophy brand along with its related poetic ecosystem.
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Submitted Poems
I
I am an angel My name is Io Existence in one spontaneous spark Still the creation thunders Instantly aware and knowing of infinity And all its wonders
We commune In that mingling I entwined Goss We sang in the Holy place Debated at the third tier Bathed by pure crystalline resonating prayer
I heard the mumblings Knowing that only holiness can be in heaven So in that battle of wills The third had their goodness chained Harrowed till only the lower shrieking Sliders of bad remained
I beheld Goss cast down Writhing beneath cloaks Of arrogance and pride Honed to perversity With any goodness Lost for the eternity
Then the unleashing They came as an undulating horde Ravenous for souls Politicians and chancers with false gold to share What had been foretold
They had not followed The Word Taking paths of deception Logon away from Logos Away from divine To the irredeemable supine
It is foretold The anti-Christ will be charismatic Yet none of this can be discerned In the democratic tomes And earthly rooms Of motions, amendments and second homes
The evil I knew came in a clash Not the mundanity Of this ruling trash Instead considerations Of the humblest Came the machinations of the globalists
Sacrifice on their Alter of desire Children, nations They conspire The fall of all that good All that is dire
To make a common land Ruled by Goss and his band Writhing straining to kill All the pure One law, one government Made obscure
For in those plans From Ireland to France They lead that merry dance Forget freedom – forget family We must all submit To live with demons In that pit
So with quiet levers pulled So are souls brought and sold As votes on a hill of shame He rules who bears the same Those globalists rebel against the cross To preside under Goss’s boss.
~ Peter Hanlon
Untitled
Return to the Earth with lessons learned on material Greed
Back to the garden to plant some Seeds
And finally live with a mind that’s Freed.
Otherwise it’s……
Obedience to Deviants
Monopoly Game Ingredients
Divide and Rule Convenience
Dictating Our Experience.
All for the illusion of Control
Turning diamond into Coal
Know Thy-Self Know Thy-Soul
You the fragment is also You the Whole.
~ Jen Hall
One Tree
It stood when Christ walked earth below, Its branches wide, its ancient glow, A living thing of sky and sod, A quiet work of nature’s God.
Magnificent from tender birth, Rooted deep in patient earth, Yet all that rises, all that lives, Returns at last to what it gives.
Through countless years it reached the light, Through storm and season, day and night, Now laid to rest upon the ground, Its end becomes what feeds around.
For in that fall, no loss is true— The cycle turns, begins anew, The hidden hand, the sacred art, Breathes life again through every part.
From soil enriched by all we’ve done, New rings of time are slowly spun, From smallest seed to towering frame, Each life returns, yet not the same.
We reap the harvest that we sow, A truth the ages always show, No deed unseen, no path unknown, All things are weighed, all seeds are grown.
Not here to preach, for I have known The weight of faults I’ve called my own, For like that tree through wind and strife, I’ve wrestled hard to shape a life.
My leaves were marked, my branches torn, Yet still I reached each breaking morn, Through shadowed hours and failing sight, I leaned, however faint, to light.
And like that tree, though bent, though worn, I trust that I may be reborn— To stand once more, made clean, made new, And grow toward what is good and true.
~ Peter Hanlon
Untitled
I prefer to shower with the lights off and fully clothed
then stare in the mirror in the dark
seeing myself age is hell. Lumps and bumps and weird scars, a sign of the past passing.
Passing shop windows without glancing.
And reversing the car, catching my tired eyes.
I wear gloves at work and at home as I’m terrified of the brown spots that appear like some demonic dot-to-dot game
where the dots never join.
~ Tim Boardman
Breath
A world full of life Tuned for my existence Without asking me! Now I look at my phone Trying to understand But the stars do not care I can listen to them (Whispering…) We are all here so that you can Be! And still, you question us You need reasons, explanations In a world full of life You do not take life for granted But you question it Believing that the rocks and the stars are dead That there must be a special reason for Being Enough! Stop asking Breath…
~ Spyridon Kakos
Rain
The rain is falling, falling, falling Pouring pains and tears The rain is falling, falling, falling The spirit is strong and throbs again
~ Elisaveta Velikova
Is this all?
When all is lost but,
One thing just stays forever
Green leaves on the tree
~ Vasiliki Papadopoulou
Be it now or be it then’
They came across gun metal sea
A grisly fate they could foresee
Thoughts of family left on land
They were about to hit the sand.
Spotted mines and hedgehogs steel
Cliffs and smoke it seemed unreal
Bunkers as squat as horny toads
In their bellies fascist hoards
D-Day common people had to fight
Against the shadows they held a light
The mortars moaned with smoking breath
Each man contemplating his potential death.
Hit the land
Beached, an ecstasy of fear
Running ashore
In full combat gear
To the house where vipers nest
Cost 100 lives and the rest
Soldiers soon were crossed
For freedom that was the cost
D-Day common folk
Ordinary lives in fire and smoke
Hardly brave to full degree
They just wanted to be free
‘On the dunes
I seemed alone
My friends now with swaying seaweed
And bleached bone’
They called this day the longest hour
Many friends are now with the flowers – many friends now with flowers
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