Monday 4 May 2009

Real Big Poems

It’s taken me some time to learn –
The best poems are not beautiful,
Nor precise conceited constructs
(those clever clever card houses,
fragile and mostly air).
They don’t have to say anything. But
Real Big Poems Have Guts.
Ugly wrenchings – inklings of the swamp within –
Hitch, somehow, to hapless passing words,
And free themselves, messily, any which way.
These joyous airborne defecations
Surf the space between, perched on the syllables
That take it all the way to you.
In you.
Real poems let us merge
Like smooshy Venn circles.


11/06




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