These words are sure to be profound.
I'm celebrating language forms,
From which, it seems, all truth is born.
We write and thrive in its twisted lines
We mine for meaning as it defines.
Curves and shapes and sentences,
Make propositional premises.
We hold up truth,
We cling to science;
The objective roof
Of our reliance.
But there's something almost mysterious,
When words are all arranged like this.
Their meter and their assonance,
Spin and stride in a kind of dance.
The thesis and vocabulary
Can start to seem so secondary.
We do want truth and nothing more,
But poetry's what we adore.
The critical mind
Now seems to wane
We redefine
What makes things plain
We'd never say that we had moved
From valuing the timeless truths
But deeper, and subconsciously
We're defenceless against poetry
Not just the facts
Not just the message
We're blind and bound
As hostages
And more than just some rhyming balladry
We lose our guard to all sorts of artistry.
The way things look, the boxes that they lie within,
Prestigious names, degrees that follow them.
BA, MA and PHD,
MD, DM and LLB
It all conspires to make us believe
That these words are of a higher breed.
We'd like to think that we are more
Than casualties whom they defraud.
But this is the point,
And it's self-aware
When things are attractive you're less likely to think critically about them.
Sam Manchester is currently a theology student with an inescapable sociology degree behind him. In an attempt to reconcile the two, he reflects and writes about their coalescence in everyday life.
Sam's archive of articles may be viewed at www.pressserviceinternational.org/sam-manchester.html