Ode to the antipoet

I told the cheongsam wearing beauty

You are very kind

But I’m not sure there is such a thing

As humility

When our world is made of capital

For only recently

I heard a conversation

On the end of poetry 

The deceivers, sharp, pointed folk

Trussed in their certainty

Poetry was neither vocation nor career

But some beast of the very idle

Something retired people and students dabbled in 

Not a grown up or grown down job but

Proof of latter life impressionist indolence

Yet, like land auctioned off and trees torn down 

We cannot know of the beauty once standing

Without the witness of a scribe

For more roads without direction we take, employing compass

Without translation, our journey remains an enigma

Like redheads, freckles and those left-handed

Doomed to scorn and ostracized days

They paint the world with much needed alternatives

As poets write out everything within us we couldn’t see, lending words to universal feeling

Yet, relegated by the long tongue of capitalist decree

Those who configure feelings shall never be 

The vaunted or the high priest, followed in obedience

It is our nature to ridicule what we do not understand

Absurd yet with mis-hap sense, justifying how we turned out

No choice, no desire for question

Some grow up longing to be dentists, chartered accountants, bankers, zoo keepers

And those of us who from earliest moment

Wrote what others dismissed or feared to touch

Carry a strange torch

Maybe the value is not always clear

Surely easier to pour scorn upon, the role of poet 

Than to give thanks

We have not in our collective greed

Forgotten the art of being

When frail turn reminds us

Being human is more

Than cast off rind

But the potency of citrus

In a land that had never before known

Tropical fruit

26 thoughts on “Ode to the antipoet

  1. A Zen story comes to mind of a moon gazing monk who was robbed of his clothes, shoes, money, all he had with him. When the thief departed, the monk sat naked, still looking at the moon and thought, “I wish i could have given that poor man this beautiful moon.”

    The poet offers the moon.

  2. I love this.
    I often find that what I write has little value but to myself.
    And then, someone reaches out and tells me they were touched by it.
    I never thought of myself as a writer until I started… writing ๐Ÿ˜‰
    I am not sure I think of myself as a poet still, even though I try at times.

    I love your words, your poetry. And they help me expand my horizon, my feelings, even when I don’t always *understand* them, they make me feel. And for that I am grateful.


  3. I must confess to being silent when encountering poetry, but the more I have willingly exposed myself to it the more I am aware that my silence comes not from dismissal of those words but from from being humbled: That poets are able to distil their words down to just that that is necessary to convey, totally, that which can move someone with sufficient emotion makes the recipient all too aware of how many words they need to even get close to a similar response. The difference between poet and naive reader is that the poet donates an emotional response: the naive reader is only about the self-gratification of supposed superiority that comes from maintaining the poet’s words are meaningless, when in fact it’s simply that they fail to see meaning.

  4. Words to Speak
    Poetry to Fly
    Song to Dream
    Steps to Walk
    Dance of Dreams
    So What is the Price
    Of MaGiC the Poetry
    oF Dance and Song Free
    A HeaLinG ForCE WiTHiN A Star
    eXPaNDs iN OuTSiDE WaYS UniVerse
    Multi-Do Spring Summer Fall Winter A LiFE
    Tree of Free
    that and who seeks
    no limits or expectations
    Just be Just be a Tree oF LiFE..
    True.. my FriEnd the Feathered Sleep
    Also kNoWn as Candice wHo i am sWorDinG
    SoULs WiTH oncE aGAin NoW to: Date For YeS From:
    iT iS aLSo TrUE iN LiGHt thAT ArT iS The Deepest State
    NoW.. tHe
    Anti-Twitter mY
    FriEnd NeVeR SOld or BOughT NoW
    For Less Than SoUL GRoWS oN
    OceaN WhOle H20 StreAMs
    BeLieVE RiVeRS WaVeS
    uS OCeaN WhOle
    SHoReS NoW
    EXPaNDinG EveR MorE Lamp
    Lit Tree oF LiFe sAMe And DiffeRenT oNE
    Perfect Storms oF NorEasterS NoVeMBeRs oN WeST 2018..:)

  5. That is utter BS for anyone to think that. The day the world loses all its poets, musicians, artists, novelists, playwrights will be the day beginning civility’s utter decline leaving all the mad dogs to fight out until they bring about utter destruction. I would not, could not live in such a world! ๐Ÿ™‚ โค

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