I'm going to talk about poetry
the electric turbine in the back
of Bukowski, Whitman, Poe, or Emerson
wasn't money and not people-schmoozing
no (read about Percy Bysshe Shelley)
their eye hungered and thirsted for an outlet
to mold language into shapes, colors, and trees
they coddled their language babies, nursed them
bringing them up into the arena of public scrutiny
blase of the smudged spectacles of the blind
high-strung unbending but optically savants and cardiac
twitchily flying above the groupthink titbits of their
tunnel-visioned milieu yes
poetry not slobbering
not Jackson Pollock-ing sounds pointillistic mishmashed
but unbought, unsullied, evocative
wordsmithing heartattacks







2.5 10/10
© Brian Peter Hodgkinson