I’m not sure
I can even write
“free verse”
anymore.
Ever since I started
using specific
poetic forms,
I find
myself
writing poems
to be read aloud;
their purpose,
if they are to be effective
when spoken,
dictates employing some kind of
cadence,
at least the semblance of some
rhythm.
You see, even there, a sense of
time
emerges from what might
at first glance or gloss
appear to be just a bit
of prose.
It’s poetry, they say,
if it provides
a distillation of a thought,
an image meant to show not tell,
a conscious fight against just
words for words sake.
To agree,
or disagree,
with such a notion
is to put yourself
in one of two
opposing camps.
Myself?
I’d rather set up tent
out in
the land between.
21 MAR 2017
