Sometimes I embarrass myself

Sometimes I miss the obvious and embarass myself.  Yesterday a panel of poets at a conference declared there is no definition of poetry; you just know it when you see it.  It is like the unicorn, rare. 

Back home, I decided to watch a Poetic movie.  The capitalized P is intentional.  I wanted to wallow in Beauty, to be ravished by Color, to be carried away by intense Feeling.  I wanted to track the brute Poetry to its lair and make it Mine.  I own hundreds of titles and wound up with The Last Unicorn, Peter S. Beagle’s lovely plaint against time and its straight jacket.  It’s done up in animation, a technique that messes with your head in the most delicious ways.  Here’s a list of the movies I almost watched.  

The Bear (wow!)
Coppola’s The Black Stallion (the first 40 minutes)
Babette’s Feast
The Earrings of Madame de...
Fantastic Planet 
Illuminata (comes close)
Siegfried
Tango
Smoke Signals
Bagdad Cafe
Something Wicked This Way Comes

You can’t argue with this list; there’s more bare-bones beauty and elegance and eloquence in each of these titles than are dreamed of in Hollywood’s contemporary philosophy.  The mystery is, what makes ‘em work?  That is, apart from good characters, interesting situations, subtle comments on the Human Condition, an inherent aesthetic, etc. 

Well, ta-DAH! I have discovered why they’re poetic and how to captivate an audience.  Listen, fellow word-slaves.  It’s quirkines.  A point of view that is bent.  No, not perversion; it’s Individuality.  Like the teachers say in Creative Writing 101: a voice. 

Duh.  I’m so embarrassed.