poetry is the achievement of
the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.
This is one of 38 definitions of poetry Sandburg included in his 1928 book Good Morning, America.
You might think the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits, if it could be achieved, would be a feat of chemistry, an equation worked out by the Nabisco lab. Sandburg, though, thought of that union of bloom and bread as a feat of imagination, a burst of synapses that would transmit a fleeting glimpse of unspoken possibilities.
Defining poetry is tricky. Some of us, remembering high-school pop quizzes, might still think of it as an arcane puzzle presented in iambic pentameter by long-dead ponderous men. Sandburg had a different idea. For him, poetry was a way to access ideas and emotions that were always humming at the edge of consciousness without taking form. Poetry gives those ideas shape. It gives them the scent of a flower and the taste of bread.
So, how should we approach something that is both the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits and "a series of explanations of life, fading off into horizons too swift for explanations"? Here are some ideas.