Every word should flow as wind
through feathered chimes
Syllables should embrace with
passion that transcends time
Memorable, unlike the fading
dream lost with the dawn
Molding verse into a mental
picture that cannot be drawn
Intangible paintings that
become a moving image
Holding the heart in a state
of sentimental scrimmage
For it is conflicting to say “a poem should not mean but be”
As ‘creating an emotional response’ is the very Art of Poetry
Simply glancing over his piece one may feel that his approach to poetry was that it should carry not meaning but simply a bunch of descriptions of poetry itself; but it is the general thought that his meaning was 'rather than rely on truths and meaning only, rely on images that help to heighten the senses and emotions without caging one in the finite world.'
But taking the poem at face value, as many have, I decided to focus solely on the importance of poetry existing with meaning and the description there-of.
Poetry is us
It is broken
Contradictions and silly feelings
It won’t always fit
Into perfect sentences
And rhyming couplets
Because we aren’t perfect
Our thoughts chaotic
Our minds faster than our pens
And we will never truly tell
If we are telling everything
If the bottle’s empty
But we will wait until next time
Next time when she shouts at us
When he punches us
When we see him
When we touch her
And our heart will pump words to our brain
That our hands can only hope to translate.
of vowels and syllables that I am holding
hostage on this page, not because I am
hungry, but rather the cynical satisfaction from
butchering the English language
in any damn way I please.
This barely steady flow of consciousness that
is absolute nonsense is truly a waste of
ink, yet here I am and here
I present to you my unadulterated
art, an insanity cultivated in the
darkest parts of my bones:
a different kind of animal.
An artful liar, his words beautifully cheat all,
speaks nonsense any one can believe
with consummate flair, sees the essence without effort,
it fits well in metaphors and imageries galore,
he has wings to fly anywhere with ease, see things up close.
The wind of imagination he blows makes waves,
he is taken to ecstatic heights riding on its crest,
yet he doesn't accept, when they call him a poet,
"Just at those moments I am inspired" he says"call me a poet,
not all the time I am one, being a poet is not a profession
but an attribute others bestow on one, out of appreciation"
I know I am not much of a poet myself
I just love to describe what I see
what touches my heart, what leaps to mind.
When the words do not come out quite right
and the rhythm is a bit off-key
I don' t get my knickers in the twixt
Poetry is not about the best masterpiece
but about letting my words flow like a river
allowing the pen to scribble all over a blank page
Here’s where poems come to die
A child sits alone,
But isn’t really alone,
His mind fires colors and shapes
Into all empty, black spaces
He hears the voice of his best friend, Henry,
They’ve known each other for two minutes
The child knows his story,
How he came from the same place
that the fairytales do.
The child’s heart is open.
The child’s innocence creates
And Henry smiles, his red
hair a strange color with no name.
And they laugh,
The child watches a small horse
Graze in the tall grasses of the prairie
Henry laughs because he’s always been ticklish
Right under his arms.
They whisper about their adventures
How Henry saved the child from
From the job of constantly pitting peaches
From the centipede as it marched
To a war beat that only Henry and
The child can hear.
Years later, the boy doesn’t know
And he doesn’t know he ever did.
That was beat out of him
After he stole his first pack of chewing gum.
And looked at his first Playboy.
This is where poems come to die.
El hombre, en el sueño y en la vigilia, consideraba las respuestas de sus fantasmas, no se dejaba embaucar por los impostores, adivinaba en ciertas perplejidades una inteligencia creciente. Buscaba una alma que mereciera participar en el universo.