Make it bigger and bolder
The secret a friend once said to me
to all things that center around poetry
is to make it bigger and bolder
for anyone who finds it to be
something else on a table in a book
or carved into the trunk of a leaning tree
You want someone to like what you write
make it look honest avoid the white-
washed indifference of the daily thought
make it reach someone, make it out of sight
make it the font, make it all about the type
find a picture, make it a picture sunny and bright
The secret is not to make the world a better place
rather sell your ideas, sell your space
make it bigger and bolder
so that everyone will remember your face
this is not your song, your poems are not the way
this is how to win the ever loving god forsaken race.
Making a poem bigger and bolder is a lie
much like engineering an emotion to comply
in order to force a rhyme over the reason
that you came here to give this a try
words without wisdom are just empty passions
without form nor understanding, no reason
to break away from expections, to walk
to run, to make a moment in time to take the wings
of the imaginary things that fill my mind
coming out of my fingers onto the blank
page then passion of truth, the marks of
my misspent youth, I am poetry I am song
I am the music from the places I want to belong
I am the words, I am the tune I want
a moment in this life to become someone more
I want to dance under a poetic moon.
Today I spent the first part of this process writing to form, I tried writing an Ode to my cat. Imagine that I almost tried to Seuss my Cat. You have been spared that unfortunate structure
as ode writing is mostly annoying since I had to stop and reference Keats and Shelley and
go mostly willy nilly in hopes that I could hold up the old forms with updated content. We can't all pay homage to the Grecian Urns that we want to. My cat Yorick showed his contempt of what I was writing with a stretch and a yawn, licked himself and stretched before giving me a disdainful glare and strutting off to find another place to sleep.
I started this piece instead, caught myself checking on the rhyme structure, cursed a lot and finally left my mind and fingers write what they wanted and then end comes out truer. I have decided to leave it intact since we all need to be reminded that sometimes it is best to trust in our instincts for the word, the form, allowing the poem to write itself.
Now I am going to shut up and leave the rest to you.
The secret a friend once said to me
to all things that center around poetry
is to make it bigger and bolder
for anyone who finds it to be
something else on a table in a book
or carved into the trunk of a leaning tree
You want someone to like what you write
make it look honest avoid the white-
washed indifference of the daily thought
make it reach someone, make it out of sight
make it the font, make it all about the type
find a picture, make it a picture sunny and bright
The secret is not to make the world a better place
rather sell your ideas, sell your space
make it bigger and bolder
so that everyone will remember your face
this is not your song, your poems are not the way
this is how to win the ever loving god forsaken race.
Making a poem bigger and bolder is a lie
much like engineering an emotion to comply
in order to force a rhyme over the reason
that you came here to give this a try
words without wisdom are just empty passions
without form nor understanding, no reason
to break away from expections, to walk
to run, to make a moment in time to take the wings
of the imaginary things that fill my mind
coming out of my fingers onto the blank
page then passion of truth, the marks of
my misspent youth, I am poetry I am song
I am the music from the places I want to belong
I am the words, I am the tune I want
a moment in this life to become someone more
I want to dance under a poetic moon.
Today I spent the first part of this process writing to form, I tried writing an Ode to my cat. Imagine that I almost tried to Seuss my Cat. You have been spared that unfortunate structure
as ode writing is mostly annoying since I had to stop and reference Keats and Shelley and
go mostly willy nilly in hopes that I could hold up the old forms with updated content. We can't all pay homage to the Grecian Urns that we want to. My cat Yorick showed his contempt of what I was writing with a stretch and a yawn, licked himself and stretched before giving me a disdainful glare and strutting off to find another place to sleep.
I started this piece instead, caught myself checking on the rhyme structure, cursed a lot and finally left my mind and fingers write what they wanted and then end comes out truer. I have decided to leave it intact since we all need to be reminded that sometimes it is best to trust in our instincts for the word, the form, allowing the poem to write itself.
Now I am going to shut up and leave the rest to you.
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