How do you Write a Poem?
(what shall be written down by pen on parcment?)
the harmonious unison of man and nature
Should it be Funny, sweet, saracastic, sad, Pandering, Condescending or just plain boring?
the spontanus overflow of powerful feelings recollected in tranquility
(do you let the ink spill out on the paper, or posture the pen in a perfect laditude?)
Painting with the gift of speech
Should the reader be enraptured by Laughter, shyly Ticlked pink, met with Confusion, rendered Tearful, beautifully insulted or have them just Snoring?
the best words in the best order
(Lounging in their well upholstered chairs?)
the journals of a sea animal living on land, waiting to fly in the air
How long is too long?
is there a measured metered rhyme?
a planned rythym in a garland of time?
is it possible to write a stanza, forging the best words in their best order
a cadenced repeated once after twice after thrice in a heroic alliteration
can an audience sit, falling in love and enticed by the magic that is the lexicon, forming from the muse, that nightngale who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
(am I talking to myself, am I talking to ones self? Are the bards of old painting my soul? is this in my head, its all in my head, so there is no reason to explain, oh the pain that is, insanity as I’m writing the same odes, the same sonnets, bursting at the margins over and over and over again, as the pen starts to dry up )
the limericks of the imagainations
is it working? (I can’t tell)
a sweet ballad recited on the darkest of seas
these insecurities, hopefully they won’t spill out
oh, who love, who feel great truths and tell them
the voices, 14 voices all in the head keep rambling in sequence theres no leaving them behind
dead men tell no tales, unless they scratch them down with their dying breath
(I can only relief them on a page, leaving the words, naked and open, bearing the marks of a scattered conscience)
spinning memoirs
sitting in the corner of a room
(don’t look)
once you look, it will all disappear
the shadows in the minds antipods
(focus, here on me, the page that lays infront of you,
where the pen is mightioer then the rose
(so many voices, which one to give into?)
is this all a dream?, a fiction of friction form the angels and what they have deemed insanity
(well, I hope the corwd will call it genius)
there, a musical thought lingering in the air
grapple at it, pull it down and with passion lay in on the page
that might start the process of setting in print, composing, hollowing out ones mind in discourse, to find verse, to spring fourth in chorus, and get burned by the fire of genuis
this is How you Write a Poem
Poetry as a Safe Place 