What I like to call “the literary rush” is sometimes the sensation I base my existence around. I kind of use this phrase in a half joking, hyperbolic manner, because I’m sure when I say it to friends it brings to mind an image of someone snorting lines of poetry (I feel a little clever for writing that, but I’m near positive it’s been written before) or something of the sort. But I don’t know, I really do feel great after reading something unique and interesting. The last poem to elicit such a feeling for me was the “The Second Coming” by W.B Yeats. After reading it I felt momentarily overcome by some sort of exotic energy. A little bit of dread and a little bit of excitement. In an earlier post I complained about a lack of the sublime in my life, but sometimes such a feeling comes close.
On occasions I’ll write something that I really like and get a bit giddy. Later I may look it over and not feel as great about it, but for those few seconds I’m in a really upbeat mood. Maybe I just get over-caffeinated before reading and writing poetry, but all the same it’s important to me.
I’m generally an upbeat person, but on the rare occasions where I feel as if I’ve chased my usual pleasures into a state of extinction, I set my aim solely on achieving this sensation. Until I’m myself again I use the “literary rush” as a buoy to keep me afloat. I know one shouldn’t put all their eggs in one basket, but I feel as if poetry is made of sturdy enough weave to justify doing so. I’ll never run out of good poetry to read, I’ll hopefully never run out of inspiration for my own material, so when things get dour I can depend upon the feeling achieved from flipping through a collection of good sonnets to keep me going until my mood improves.