“Don’t ever force it,”
They say about the arts, meaning
for this,
for me in the right here right
meow,
don’t force poetry.
DON’TFORCEPOETRY!!!!!!!!!!!
!
But forced times
call for
forced measures.
Like the way Spiderman’s
forcing you to think:
DR.PEPPERDR.PEPPERDR.PEPPER
when he shoots
DR.PEPPERDR.PEPPERDR.PEPPER
webs across his room at a
DR.PEPPERDR.PEPPERDR.PEPPER
can.
that’s more than “placement”
as in
filling platea = “open space.”
Nah.
That crap’s being forced into already
closed space.
Spiderman was
a Jones soda kind
of guy
at the time that film was made.
Or…
What if Iran or North Korea or [insert modern apotheosized foe]
obtain a NUCLEAR or [insert modern doomsday] device?!
“That’s missing the fact that—“
YES, but WHAT if Iran or North Korea or [insert modern apotheosized foe]
obtain a NUCLEAR or [insert modern doomsday] device?!
“Well, I guess that’s always possible, but we should really be asking—“
IKNOWIKNOWIKNOW, BUT! What if Iran or North Korea or [insert modern apotheosized foe]
create a NUCLEAR or [insert modern doomsday] device?!
“You’re really not listening to a wor—“
I hear ya, I hear ya, but what if Iran or North Korea or [insert modern apotheosized foe]
gets a NUCLEAR or [insert modern doomsday] device?!
“Talk about not getting a word in edg—“
Edgy? I’m not edgy, you’re edgy. I’m just trying to ask the following: What if Iran or North Korea or [insert modern apotheosized foe]
gets a NUCLEAR or [insert modern doomsday] device?!
sigh
Forced speech,
forced hand.
all
verbal bets count
at certain
poker tables.
So let’s force some things,
because they’ve reduced us
poets
to shouting,
and we’ve run out of ways
to use
this lame excuse for
emphasisthathas
2
do
with:the:[i]way
w’ere framing
are
metre.
Here goes
nothing
like the governmental
signs of Rome:
IF YOU CONTINUE TO BANISH OUR METAPHOR, EXILE OUR REASON TO CORNERS OF EMPIRE, RUIN OUR PLATFORMS, SEGREGATE METER, NEUTER RHYME’S PURPOSE AND HIDE THE PHONETICS, IF JAIL YOU OUR BARDS AND YOU CASTRATE OUR LYRICISTS, TURN ALL OUR TROUBADOURS INTO YOUR MARKETERS, DIVERSIFY VERSIFIERS, BURN UP OUR SONNETEERS, RUIN OUR RHYMERS AND LYNCH ALL THE LAUREATES
~then ~
one day
you’ll wake
to world
without
compass
map
watch
swatch
schematic
reference section
shelter
hammerfell
nail
starsign
clothesline
amplifier
billboard top 40
trumpet
code or codex
camera
thresholds
barefoot walk on sunset-lit beach
telescope
microscope
stethoscope
word processor
thesaurus
laxative
immodium
purgative
antacid
cardboard box
} and the rocket it resembles {
external hard drive
barometer
odometer
thermometer
pedometer
tachometer
glucometer
vaccometer
insomneter
neurometer
cardometer
or song
for these too come
from poetry.
[i] supposedly modern and supposedly clever
}{
For newcomers — a note on 50 @ 25:
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 24th birthday on April 30th – 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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