I’ve been out of grad school for almost two full years, and after all this time have begun taking stock of what it is I miss most about being submerged in academia for so many years. Among them: surprisingly is my affinity for critical reading. Lately I’ll read essays, journals just so I can use a retractable highlighter and a soft lead mechanical pencil to jot some incoherent notes in the margins. One essay of interest that hasn’t left me in days was one I just read in a recent Poetry Magazine, the February issue.
There was an argument for a reason as to why religion has little if any place in modern poetics. Immediately I was captivated by the subject as recently I have been working harder on ascertaining my own spiritual growth and development. The essay centered itself on the hinge of a Heidegger theory of poets for the world versus poets for the earth. I won’t even attempt to summarize the essay here, but I will share one of the more potent moments that has stuck beside me the past week.

An issue of creation. An issue of the imagination. And in the essay in particular it was the issue of: “imagination is imperialistic.” I wasn’t stunned by the idea, instead I felt illuminated and in gratitude to the writer of the piece that he could hit on such a round idea that at times has left me clambering for any linguistic code.

The idea itself, imagination is imperialistic, when read aloud phonetically already sounds powerful and mighty. It already sounds as though the imagination is nothing to throw around lightly. I loved it and tried desperately to separate and serrate it’s creases of meaning and intention. Broken down the idea is simple, you create therefore you “create” or even, you engage in the action of creation therefore you build, construct and redefine the world around you.

So I was blown simply put, by this elegant translation of creation and left curious about my own ideas concerning the engagement of imagination in my poetics.