Once upon a time, I read that the perfect age for writing quality poetry is twenty-three.  Apparently most of T.S. Elliot’s stuff came out then, the rest of his work being supposedly non-poetic. This resulted in 46 poems written at 23.

These poems came out exponentially faster and faster before my 24^th birthday on April 30^th – and I had to write in genres spanning from epic ballads to limericks to get 46 in on time. I guess that means, for better or worse, that’s the best poetry I’ll ever write. Sad day.

Who was I kidding?

Milton was blind and old—oooooold—when he publishedParadise Regained. Emily Dickenson was dead when her stuff came out. My favorite stuff from T.S. Elliot came out after his conversion. So yeah, old age is good for poetry too. Look at Burns and Berry.

(Side note: the name “Berry Burns” sounds like a shady car salesman).

Will I keep up this twice-my-age regimen every few years? Who knows, but this year, here’s to 50 poems at 25 to be written exponentially faster until I turn 26 on April Thirtyish. I do it this the second time around as a way to say: “Here’s to living life well before it’s too late.”

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005: Listory

My current shuffled mix
of songs
tells stories by
their titles:

Alabama, I won’t let you down.
Buffalo soldier falling off the face of the earth.
Alberta, be not silent.
Hold on closer to the sun.
Life before aesthetics sparks late bloomer.
Not enough eyes on the prize.

Brooklyn with your highest wall towards the sun.
Harvest moon. Sister falling… parachutes.
You and me shiver.
Every passing day, Steven, we never change.
Mirianne miracle-cursing Pope Killdragon.
I live in your ghost before you accuse me.
Thunderbird—wade through the night, unknown legend.
Leave it all behind; carry the weight.
Such a woman out on the weekend one of these days.
Wise Old Owl kill Dragon.
Saint Cecilia, hold me near. Sharpest blade? Crash into me.
Broken hospital like minded fool: right on time.
Matinee bound to this world from Hank to Hendrix.
Layla, this and that open my hands.
Curbside—isn’t it poetry?
Gradma Mary, head home.
Words? Fears? Beautiful boys and girls? A man needs a maid—let it go.
If you are the writer, that’s how strong my love is.

Reflecting on my greater or lesser
moments
tied — each to each —
to titles
reminds me why music
(and therefore music mixes)

often match
the resonant frequency of the world.