Poeming is pretentious. Embrace that damning truth.
A poem is not the truth of the matter. A poem is your truth of a moment, or your lie of the movement. I see the sky as garter-belt blue. You see that ceiling as azure, I’m sure.
Near and here is the rhyme dear. Relish the hot-dogging of the interior rhyme.
Prose suggest a paradigm shift, life being just around the corner. The poem is that antithesis; poesy playing cop. Narrative pursues, poetry makes the arrest.
Don’t dismiss the doggerel. A poem is a bark, a growl, and often, a public warning. A dumb ditty doing laughable due diligence.
Immersion into poetic tropes is just enough rope to hang oneself. Better to full bore that MFA, and live to word sling another day.
Never abandon your puppy, but be quick to send your latest poem packing. Sure edit, but finish-don’t fetish.
Write poems. Don’t be a poet.
Compose prose poems, if you can. Since there is no agreement as to just what a prose poem is, make the damn thing your very own. It will help you verse.
If I’m teachin’ I’m reachin’ for a reason to quit it. The discipline…. that is.
my bones have become brittle
as my mind has become bitter
but I’m learning to finger pick that tiny violin
A strangely dexterous demise
without surmise, reprise, or
coda rising comfortably within
so low, this solo
that it leaves one speechless
and so out of tune, I think
with the highly orchestrated..
first there was the word