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True poets don’t need to write poems.

Not being a true poet, I give you this.

Poems need their poets, and so the rumor started

Crazy rumor! That poems mark the poet,

And next to a sad poem you find a poet, broken-hearted.

But the true poet weaves

True poetry in the leaves,

True poetry in the way your eye

Looks, before beauty makes you cry.

The true poet creates the sea

And the stormy look of the sea,

And says things I’ve already forgotten,

Which she once said to me.

True poetry brings her right here,

Where to write a poem would just seem queer.



  1. September 16, 2017 at 3:09 am

    If you need in one hand and shit in the other…tell me, my opponent
    Which one fills up faster?
    Poems need for nothing
    Assumptions of wanting a poet for that poem
    Begins with a process of elimination
    From the great white sharks and their prey
    The remains in which were left
    From the mark of the great white shark in the vast, unruly sea
    Upon the prey of what little remained
    The great white shark did leave a mark
    And aside from all damage from the circle of life
    Never once did the prey let the great white shark let the mark degrade his strength
    The great white shark baffled by the root of words that are versed
    Within a metaphor of a creator who feeds off the simple minded and the weak
    As the as and the like belong to a similie
    Whilst the riddles be written from brilliance and strength
    So riddle me this if a player be played by the words in the game
    Where to write is to be queer as poem is to poet
    Is a creator of the sea just an ilusion for the weak
    Or is the matter of the seas creator a test from the brilliant and the brave
    From which this poem brought you into the riptide of the wave?

  2. Desdi said,

    September 16, 2017 at 6:02 pm

    I salute you, ancient ocean. Ancient ocean, your harmoniously spherical form which delights the solemn countenance of geometry; but too well recalls to me the tiny eyes of mankind, similar to those of the wild boar for smallness, and to those of night birds in the circular perfection of contour. Nevertheless mankind has thought himself beautiful in all ages.

    (Les Chants de Maldoror)

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