Creation

I. Indoors; outdoors

Outside; inside

Sunlight; tubelight

The poet must choose

 

II. Lights on

Lights off

The glow of the computer illuminates

the poet’s minds

 

III. Turn to a fresh new page

Clean, blank –limitless

Grabbing the pen, 

the poet begins

 

IV. Look out or look in

What do you want to see?

Tell us, poet, what inspires

you?

 

V. Write

Poiesis

Imagine you are a poet.

 

Forget everything else

Poetry is your calling,

for these next few minutes

Can you describe it?

 

What is the point of a poem?
Of poetry, in general

Do you know?

Does anyone?

 

A poet looks out at the world

Takes in the world; breathes it in

And lets out meaning; Writes meaning

 

Meaning is life;

What the poet

sees, hears, does

from his glasses

 

His point of view

Your point of view.

Can you do it?

Should you do it?

 

Theft

A poet reads

No he devours

Others’ works

 

Reads to steal

 

Not the superficial language

Not the words that are on the page

A poet’s theft is far deeper –more meaningful

Thoughts and ideas

 

An idea

can change everything

An idea

is a poet’s strongest weapon

 

A weapon to cause

change

A weapon to cause

what he wants

 

Pablo said, ‘Bad artists copy,

Good artists steal’

What kind is a Poet?

This road

This road’s going somewhere. I don’t know where, but it intrigues me so I’m going to follow it. The literal road I’m on is third avenue and that has definite destination that most of us know. Right now I’m headed back home. And that is a road I sure as hell want to follow. It leads to the most important thing in my life, at this very moment in time. That’s my bed. Sleep. The very thought of it makes me feel all soft inside. I taunt myself with images and thoughts about getting into bed under the nice warm covers and surrendering to sleep. God knows that this is a battle I fight every day. And he must know why too because the answer eludes me. I want sleep. I crave it. And yet when the time comes, the final moment when I am ready and I have decided that it is finally time; the time for sleep has finally arrived, she runs away from me. I picture her laughing at me. Giggling gently, thinking about me as some poor sod. It is a nightly dance, that Sleep and I, we partake in and she is constantly leading. I try to fight back, to grab control of the reigns and lead, because I am supposed to lead, and yet my efforts are futile. She is in total control and I struggle to think back to a time when I was in total control. The very thought seems idiotic. But I haven’t yet gotten to that stage yet. I’m still walking back so it hasn’t occurred to me, just as yet. I pretend as if I don’t know that I’m about to take part in this dance.

Everyday is a new, fresh day.

I tell myself.