Poeming is pretentious. Embrace that damning truth.
A poem is not the truth of the matter. A poem is your truth of a moment. I see the sky as garter-belt blue. You see that ceiling as azure, I’m sure.
Near and here is the rhyme dear. Relish the hot-dogging of the interior rhyme.
Prose suggest a paradigm shift, life being just around the corner. The poem is that antithesis; poesy playing cop. Narrative pursues, poetry makes the arrest.
Don’t dismiss the doggerel. A poem is a bark, a growl, and often, a public warning. A dumb ditty doing laughable due diligence.
Immersion into poetic tropes is just enough rope to hang oneself. Better to full bore that MFA, and live to word sling another day.
Never abandon your puppy, but be quick to send your latest poem packing. Sure edit, but finish-don’t fetish.
Write poems. Don’t be a poet.
Compose prose poems, if you can. Since there is no agreement as to just what a prose poem is, make the damn thing your very own. It will help you verse.
Luck to you. And I leave you with a pervious prose poem. And it being a Sunday.
An Old (Testament) Prose Poem
We’ve been Inter-coursing around, with why some want to “Lord It Over”, since Adam’s Rib decided to Pearly White that Golden Delicious. And once treed, we fear higher ground. Laid low, we whisper up, a local language, riffing in neighborhood punctuation, with the accent on block by block conceits.
Making myth, of the original mischief, we make material the first spit shined shibboleth: quick to lose its luster to the tongue wag, the tongue lash, the talk back, to talking down-but never listening until the blood flows and it all goes… Feudal. Then, once again, we have to resort to the necessary rewind. Or, as I have taken to call it—“The Forbidden Fruit Loop.”