Self-Portrait with Palette (Painter and Faun), Florine Stettheimer

What is it?
Why write or read it?
How: either?
Tropes, quantitative song,
Qualitative beats,
Emotion in tranquility,
Being not meaning,
Rhyme, free, blank, feet,
Rich, wrong,

Here is the manic mystery.
Humanity is language,
Language humanity,
That’s all ye know on earth.
Or need?  Almost.
Poetry elevates,
Opens a portal into a person,
One person who is all persons,
Parts of the bigger Person.
Whatever rises from the norm,
Judge it as ye will,
Even be it ill of form
Remains a poem, though swill.

How’s that?

Know that dogs write prose.
Poochie urinates on a post.
“I was here.  This is me.
You go somewhere else to pee.”
Does it get more eloquent?
Yet, not poetry, he knows.

Only we are poets.
Our ‘counterfactual anthologies’
Sifting through the point
Unless they see
Language as a gift,
And only to homo sapiens,
And, therefore,

Somewhere, somehow,
Nod to the Giver.


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

New English Review Press is a priceless cultural institution.
                              — Bruce Bawer


Pre-order on Amazon or Amazon UK or wherever books are sold

Order at Amazon, Amazon UK, or wherever books are sold. 

Order at Amazon US, Amazon UK or wherever books are sold.

Available at Amazon US, Amazon UK or wherever books are sold.

For the literature lover in your life on Amazon US, Amazon UK or wherever books are sold. 

For children of all ages. Order at AmazonAmazon UK or wherever books are sold.

Send this to a friend