Poetic Moments?

Does anyone else have poetic moments? I described in yesterday's post what was, for me, a "poetic moment." But I've thought since then that the idea of a poetic moment may not communicate to everyone.

For me, a poetic moment is a moment in which my observations take on a certain quality inherent in great poetry. It's an aesthetically beautiful and poignant moment which could be painted through well-honed verse or even portrayed on canvas. It's a slice of life, cut such a way as to make you think differently. To juxtapose dissimilar things, to bring a hitherto unnoticed fact into sharp relief in a way that causes reflection.

The beetle did that for me. Something about his steady track through the sand surrounded by the footprints of teenage boys, his quiet, slow progress amid the loud rushing of four-wheelers, his tiny legs pushing him upward on mountainous dunes, moved me to ponder and observe.

I was reminded last night of another poetic moment I had a few years ago. I was attending a conference in San Francisco, and before heading out for lunch, I had ascended to my room on an upper floor of a high-rise hotel. I took a moment to look out the window at the jumbled skyline of the city: towering buildings the proportions of matchsticks, surrounded by lower, but still tall, structures, outlined by black city streets filled with honking cars way below.

As I surveyed the muted gray-brown scene on the overcast day, my eye suddenly caught a speck of brilliant color. It was a kite, bright red and diamond shaped, flying above the mid-range towers but below the tallest ones. It seemed so out of place—peacefully propelled by God-sent wind in this rushing, hectic man-made urbanity, and I wondered at its origin. I watched it for a moment, and soon I was able to trace its string, curving down to the roof of a building where someone stood holding it.

I was struck by this scene, it's contrast in color and activity. The juxtapositions were poetic to me, and if I'd been given to write verse, I would have done so. But I was hungry, and I contended myself with a few minutes of observation before reluctantly turning away and heading for the lobby where I found two acquaintances and joined them for lunch.

Sometime during our meal, I commented that I'd just had a poetic moment. One of them queried whether I wrote poetry, and they both seemed puzzled by my explanation of the moment as being poetic in and of itself, without need for written verse. These were two seasoned magazine editors, older and more well-read than I. Both have an eye and ear for things aesthetic and both are much more talented writers than I. Yet they didn't seem to grasp my meaning, thus making me wonder at my use of the term.

And so I wonder again . . . does this idea of "poetic moments" exist outside my head? Is this a creation of my own imagination or do others have similar moments and understand my description?