'acrostic' - word of the day, And as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown the poet’s pen Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name – Shakespeare, I can't do it if anyone's watching me., Keep it short and snappy, Look at that over there!, Move along -nothing to see here, Poetry creates the myth - the prose writer draws its portrait. – Jean-Paul Sartre, Pome homey, Simple poem is as simple poet does, Towel throwing competition
Cheese and Rice.
The enormous transmission is being shelved for misdemeanors, which include – being too enormous for feasibility, and not tight enough to hold the water that an audience, (proof reader employed thanking you), and indeed myself demands. If I set it free, it will come back to me in better shape, leaving the trees in their place as the wood shows its face. Probably. shrugs. There are many others cascading along the brain snakes, and they shall find their way here eventually I’m sure. Tis the poems that flow easiest; sonmi is a poet see, rather than a writer. Rather than a normal one anyway.
I found the following poems on the subject of…writing poetry. As one climbs inside the other, it eventually becomes a creature that can turn itself inside out. And still be beautiful.
Teaching The Ape To Write Poems – James Tate
They didn’t have much trouble
teaching the ape to write poems:
first they strapped him into the chair,
then tied the pencil around his hand
(the paper had already been nailed down).
Then Dr. Bluespire leaned over his shoulder
and whispered into his ear:
‘You look like a god sitting there.
Why don’t you try writing something?’
Poetry – Boris Pasternak
Yes, I shall swear by you, my verse,
I shall wheeze out, before I swoon:
You’re not a tenor’s shape and voice,
You’re summer travelling third class,
You are a suburb, not a tune.
You’re a street as close as May,
You’re a battlefield at night,
Where clouds groan loudly in dismay
And scatter, when dismissed, in fright.
And, splitting in the railway’s lace-
That’s outskirts, not refrain and home-
They crawl back to their native place
Without a song, as if struck dumb.
The shower’s offshoots stick in clusters
Till break of day, and all the time
They scribble on the roofs acrostics
And bubble up rhyme after rhyme.
All poetry is what you make it.
And even when the truism’s not worth
The rhyme, the flow of verse is scared.
The notebook’s open-so flow forth.