On Poets, Hearts, Flowers, and Revolutions

A Response to the Rise of the "Tortured Poet"

God once kindly whispered to me that behind every revolution is a poet’s heart. I, of course, believe this. (How could I not?) But then I wondered: Who is a poet? And what makes a poet’s heart? Of what material are these revolutionary vessels constituted? And what is a revolution, really?

All hearts are like flowers. But the great question is… what kind of flower?

I believe the answer to this question lies in the fact that everyone wants their heart to be a flower. Meaning this: Some venture through the garden, gathering fallen petals from others’, even plucking petals right off others’. Then, they sew the petals together, fasten them to a random stem (also recycled), and shove it into the dirt. This little creation begs to be a flower, as false as it may be. This is the heartbreaking truth of many heart-flowers of our day. The have no roots because there are merely stitched together with stolen pieces. They are charlatan blooms: desperate to be real or at least feel something real. But they cannot, because they are not actually living (for they have no roots), but only display the appearance of living.

But then there are the heart-blooms which start as tiny seeds—barely visible. They are, at once, the smallest in size and the grandest in possibility, of all things. Then, over time, they grow. The roots travel deep and wide in the heart of the earth and the bloom breaks open with its own beauty facing out to the world as it basks in the sun and drinks the rain. It grows in step with the seasons, and sometimes there is a frost, and it must start all over again. Sometimes the petals are plucked by predators, masqueraders, or reckless carousers… but the bloom never gives up, as its roots grant it the freedom to exist in beauty through every element of the great wide earth and the trials that inevitably pass through.

A heart-bloom with no roots is doomed to a tortured existence, to ever-tumble in even the slightest wind, to collapse under the weight of the very waters meant to nourish it, to shrivel up in the very light meant to give it life.

But a rooted bloom that, in patience, grace, and authenticity, withstands the trials of growing and blooming… well, that is an existence of freedom, born from the mature talent of resilience. It is never overnight, but ever enjoying the depth of the glory of ebbs and flows. Always feeling, and choosing to feel even in pain, because the pain has a purpose worthy of experiencing... a weight worthy of being entrusted with the honor of carrying.

The poet’s heart is this small seed which grows all on its own, by God’s hand—beyond other explanation (rain and sun do not come by mere chance, after all).

A revolution is when a heart finally comes to its own conclusion and is free of the conclusions in the echo chamber of look-alike conclusions all around.

Many parts of the world are gardens of charlatan blooms, and a poet’s heart exists as the rooted bloom among them. Oscar Wilde once wrote, “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” In the midst of times when this world feels like a gutter and the sorrow, pain, and chaos feel too great to bear, it is the great duty of the poet to help us fix our attention up to the stars (and beyond). It is not the duty of the poet to wallow in the muck, romanticizing the very stuff stitched charlatan blooms are made of.

I believe this all to be true because of the ultimate example of the very first authentic heart-bloom that inspired charlatan blooms to start fresh and real, the Poet’s heart that sparked the greatest revolution to ever occur and that will one day bring it all to a glorious end, the Poet’s Heart that changes every poet’s heart should they let it. The Poet’s Heart that charges every poet’s heart with the power needed to change for the better. The only Poet’s Heart truly worthy of the title of “Tortured” yet who did not succumb to it—purple robe, crown of thorns, crow’s feet, and all: Jesus Christ