On Poetry and Language
Published by Promethean
Inspiration from the gods,
The muse, the root — the source.
Letting words flow as they may,
To tell of life and loss.
Is it such a straight affair,
To place words as they come?
Simple samples of a thought,
They show us how it’s done.
When approaching class today,
“Bowed head and lowered eyes,”
Angelou inspires us;
“But still, like dust, I’ll rise.”
“High, green meadows are glowing,”
Plath in her wisdom writes,
“The berries and bushes end.”
Her poems an easy price.
Let these words not trouble you,
“It has so small a foot.”
Dickinson’s flowers, dew, dust;
“Hers is the smallest boot.”
Contemporaries, even
Linguistic, Bang says, “Art
Is what looking takes you to.”
So give heed and take heart.
Commence composition,
Let’s not be encumbered,
Now encouraged by Clifton,
“Poems come out of wonder.”
“Collect me, they seem to ask,”
Lauterbach, she observes.
Many unfinished pieces,
That our hearts each preserve.
“My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night-”
Millay quoth, to foes and friends,
“It gives a lovely light!”
As we write, thinking, dreaming,
Spewing thoughts, saying words,
Telling stories to and fro,
We take on quite the charge.
A manatee, a clipboard,
A book or form or pledge;
Signing names takes many forms,
Some things yet left unsaid.
Ginsburg will to us apprise,
"Real change, enduring change,
Happens one step at a time.”
So let us now engage.