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"misreadings" poems
Try to remember that poetry chooses the poet and if chosen, beware, for she can be a real ***** and will rarely provide a cup of coffee much less groceries. Do not think poetry or fiction will supply a living, they won't. Plan accordingly. Make hard work and frugality your floorboards. Stay rooted. The coasts are foreign countries. America is in the middle. Nebraska is real; LA is certainly not. Talk with poor people wherever you go. They know great stories and because they know pain laugh more often than the comfortable. Find some other work to hold onto. Lay brick or landscape. Write complex software. Anything physically or mentally exhausting. If you are foolish enough to introduce yourself as a writer, ninety-nine percent of the people you meet will think you mad, stupid or simply lazy. Garrulity marks the mediocre. Listen. Keep your true love separate and secret. Keep at least one toe in the natural world. Fish, hunt, pick berries. Avoid war and commerce. Make your poems; craft them like the things they are, sparse and flinty, made of nouns and verbs. Adjectives and adverbs are only spices; use only the fewest and freshest. Modifiers are poetic; poetry is not. Avoid irony like the plague it is. Say what you mean. Do not be disappointed by misreadings and misunderstandings for consciousness can never be fully shared. They gets it or they don't. Drink if you must but remember that alcohol is the writer's version of black lung disease. It will end up swallowing you. Mostly just do your art and try to be kind. You are just another sentient being babbling into the Void. Modesty and humility might save you from the angry gods but it's no sure thing. Although you were chosen for this you are responsible for your own salvation or destruction. *How great is the darkness in which we ***** Remember: you can't step into the same river, not even once. If this seems altogether too much, consider investment banking before it is too late.    ~mce
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Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 6:26 PM UTC
A Mad Monk's Sermon To A Young Poet
Try to remember that poetry chooses the poet and if chosen, beware, for she can be a real ***** and will rarely provide a cup of coffee much less groceries. Do not think poetry or fiction will supply a living, they won't. Plan accordingly. Make hard work and frugality your floorboards. Stay rooted. The coasts are foreign countries. America is in the middle. Nebraska is real; LA is certainly not. Talk with poor people wherever you go. They know great stories and because they know pain laugh more often than the comfortable. Find some other work to hold onto. Lay brick or landscape. Write complex software. Anything physically or mentally exhausting. If you are foolish enough to introduce yourself as a writer, ninety-nine percent of the people you meet will think you mad, stupid or simply lazy. Garrulity marks the mediocre. Listen. Keep your true love separate and secret. Keep at least one toe in the natural world. Fish, hunt, pick berries. Avoid war and commerce. Make your poems; craft them like the things they are, sparse and flinty, made of nouns and verbs. Adjectives and adverbs are only spices; use only the fewest and freshest. Modifiers are poetic; poetry is not. Avoid irony like the plague it is. Say what you mean. Do not be disappointed by misreadings and misunderstandings for consciousness can never be fully shared. They gets it or they don't. Drink if you must but remember that alcohol is the writer's version of black lung disease. It will end up swallowing you. Mostly just do your art and try to be kind. You are just another sentient being babbling into the Void. Modesty and humility might save you from the angry gods but it's no sure thing. Although you were chosen for this you are responsible for your own salvation or destruction. *How great is the darkness in which we ***** Remember: you can't step into the same river, not even once. If this seems altogether too much, consider investment banking before it is too late.    ~mce
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The Board by Michael R. Burch Accessible rhyme is never good. The penalty is understood: soft titters from dark board rooms where the businessmen paste on their hair and, Colonel Klinks, defend the Muse with reprimands of Dr. Seuss. The best book of the age sold two, or three, or four (but not to you), strange copies of the ones before, misreadings that delight the board. They sit and clap; their revenues fall trillions short of Mother Goose. Keywords/Tags: poetry, accessible, rhyme, traditional, muse, Seuss, Mother Goose, misreadings, discrimination, prejudice, revenues, sales, copies
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Mar 29, 2020
Mar 29, 2020 at 1:40 AM UTC
The Board