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
The Poet’s Eye
06
May