find me in the river of thought and event
carried by the current of contemporary men
see me stack their pebbles higher into my modern wall
damming up their river into my waterfall

genius ain’t meaningless
its genus is in genes from us
we can’t be me
till me ain’t we
original hearts make original starts
so take art, take heart
take it from from me:
you be you be you be
not me

mankind’s eyes look onward unto my journey’s end
church-reared, war-bearded, floured by what two states can give one another
between them strike my railroad, armistice reinstall
turn all their wood and iron into my shared prayer shawl

come and pray together
come and play together

The human race went out before me
sunk the hills and bridged the rivers
men and nations, poets, sinners.
Women, slaves, kings and skinners
raise our wave, our tide of winners
from the cave of new beginners:
Anne Franks from Jewed Berliners,
Skywalked Lukes from Rancor dinners,
Jonah from the Lochness innards,
raucous bars bring Cohen, Leonards,
Shakespeares from the novel skimmers,
Beowulf from channel swimmers.
Our reception stacks the tinders,
starts the spark, and stokes the cinders –
worlds inspire us when they hinder
(Spring: it marinates in Winter).
All the pain and baggage triggers
of the world’s eventful river—
let it pass to you from mirrors
through your mind and let it linger,
dim the lights, oh dimmer, dimmer…
Find one thought and let it simmer,
sifting through the world’s litter:
when it hits it sends a shiver
up the spine and in the liver.
From mankind, the you considers
what your soul alone delivers.
Stack your pebbles in their river.

find me in the river of thought and event
carried by the current of contemporary men
see me stack their pebbles higher into my modern wall
damming up their river into my waterfall

 

---

:: about the 54 poems written at 27 ::

After much deliberation, I decided to keep the whole tradition of doubling my age and writing that many poems in a year. You’ll notice that April Thirtyish has already passed, so I’m late in posting. I’ve gotten about half of them written and will begin posting this week.

I started this whole mess with 46 poems written at 23, most of which are still up on the site and many of which are awful. Those poems I wrote because I read somewhere that the best age for poetry is 23. I was turning 24 and had an existential crisis.

Then I got over it.

Suddenly I was 25 and thought, “Why not do it again?” So I doubled my age and wrote 50 poems at 25. Again, most of these are still on the site and I’m proud of one or two of them.

Now I’m twenty-eight and it’s almost a principle, almost an undeniable fact of life. When the wild Lancelot is in his native habitat and his age is in an odd year, he will be secreting poetry. I do this because poetry is important, because we must take an active role in the creation of new language or else our language dies.

That means I must write, I must learn how to create better poems even if I’m awful at it — everyone must because the fate of our culture’s at stake. For me, this year, that’s 54 poems at 27.

So I’ll schedule these suckers out and give it a go. Follow along with the category 54 @ 27.

cover image by Rebecca Krebs

[thrive_leads id=’10721′]

 

---

:: about the 54 poems written at 27 ::

After much deliberation, I decided to keep the whole tradition of doubling my age and writing that many poems in a year. You’ll notice that April Thirtyish has already passed, so I’m late in posting. I’ve gotten about half of them written and will begin posting this week.

I started this whole mess with 46 poems written at 23, most of which are still up on the site and many of which are awful. Those poems I wrote because I read somewhere that the best age for poetry is 23. I was turning 24 and had an existential crisis.

Then I got over it.

Suddenly I was 25 and thought, “Why not do it again?” So I doubled my age and wrote 50 poems at 25. Again, most of these are still on the site and I’m proud of one or two of them.

Now I’m twenty-eight and it’s almost a principle, almost an undeniable fact of life. When the wild Lancelot is in his native habitat and his age is in an odd year, he will be secreting poetry. I do this because poetry is important, because we must take an active role in the creation of new language or else our language dies.

That means I must write, I must learn how to create better poems even if I’m awful at it — everyone must because the fate of our culture’s at stake. For me, this year, that’s 54 poems at 27.

So I’ll schedule these suckers out and give it a go. Follow along with the category 54 @ 27.

[thrive_leads id=’10721′]