I.
Poetry is taking a blind man
and trying to describe the rainbow to him
using no adjectives.
II.
The Poet walks into a dark room
and paints the air white...
or at least attempts to
while the whales eat him whole
and recreate him again.
III.
The muses and the poet,
locked in a game of baseball,
forget that the poet must die
and forever they linger,
haunting students
with a bigger picture.
anguage, I adore the use of language and here you make exemplary good use of it. The similes that you employ are both novel and well crafted. At first I wa a bit discouraged by the numbering of each stanza, but it appears that each could be read as a sererate poem
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I opened this poem because Ars Poetica has always been among my favorites. This has a certain quality...some illusive, rather disjointed ideas about true poetry and I found myself nodding and smiling. You are a true poet, Michael. Keep up the good work. Raynette