Someone PLEASEEEEEEE explain to me why these poets are allergic to using capital letters??? Genuine question because I am taking a Literature course and I want to strangle some people

I was talking with my sister last night and it occurred to me that I write a lot of poetry during liminal and intermundane moments. Late at night before I go to sleep. A moment of mental stress. Immediately after awaking from unconsciousness. Feeling trapped between the past and the future. Longing for the beauty of the unattainable past. Stuck in traffic. Out walking at sunset, almost dying from the freezing cold temperature. Meditation on our childhood in the earth. Outside in a thunder storm. Imagining I was out in the woods. Something eerily like demonic possession. Dancing in the rain. Listening to the night sounds at midnight dejection. Melancholy contemplation in an unlit room. A late night obsession. Out, meditating, on a walk. The shock of a murder. Reading apocalyptic literature.

Humans are intermundane beings; thus it only makes sense that our poetry would be the same.

I feel like we have truly forgotten that poetry is intellectual. That art is intellectual. I’m not saying that you need to write following a whole lot or rules — heck I freaking love Wild Nights by Emily Dickinson which is written in Free Verse — it simply shouldn’t be simple. Because we as humans — and our human mind, heart, soul and spirit — are not simple. We are complex. So our art should be complex. We shouldn’t try to simplify complex topics for marketability, we should be delighting in the actual nature of poetry which is that it is how our souls speak. At this point we truly must fight for the survival of poetry. Not just poems but poetry. Soul. Sublimity. Passion. Beauty. Romance. Love. Poetry. Because it is a war, and indeed the very casualty might be our hearts and souls.

It’s wild to me that people will write sentences, do a little line break, and call it poetry. Like first of all that’s a poem (yes, technically that is a poem) but it’s not poetry! Meanwhile, I pour out the entirety of my soul into my work, labor over every individual word choice, never post a poem until i’m at least 80% sure that it’s at least adequate… and yet i still have this creeping dread that I’ll never be good enough to be loved nor admired.

You know in season 2 of Dickinson? All those scenes where Sue was explaining how Emily’s poems made her feel? And how she didn’t want to feel those things? Hahahahahahahahaha. I feel that right now. I feel… I feel like sanity’s returned to me but also like my heads been cut off. I heel like there’s an inferno in my soul, in my inner-most being, but also I feel like a cold has settled completely over me and cuts me in two like a sword. Except this is stronger.

-G.K. Chesterton, Alarms and Discursions

... anyone wanna give there opinion on cheese lol?

No Way Out