Water-boarded metaphors.
Rhyme-schemes forced
to be linguistic whores.
Thesauri strewn about - tattered and torn.
Kerosene-soaked-clichés ready to burn.
Newsflash, hotshots:
Poetry isn’t a Shift+F7 mad-lib.
It isn’t a way to romanticize stalking;
or masquerade unhealthy obsession,
under the guise of unrequited affection.
Calling something “poetry,”
doesn’t grant perspicacity,
or transfigure triviality.
If words aren’t tethered to insight,
your “poem” is just dumb.
Can you dissect the ubiquity of reality,
in ways that make people stagger?
Or do you expectorate and regurgitate,
cloyingly redundant blather?
Do you actually care to smith your words?
Or is yours,
the work,
of a hapless poseur?
~
Write only what you know -
If you’re confounded by interesting things,
stop trying to write;
go wander the world,
‘til you puzzle-out a few mysteries.
Write in your own voice -
If you lack clever ways,
to craft a striking phrase,
sit quietly and read,
until language bends the knee.
Write more descriptively.
Start sentences with verbs.
Pay attention to your syllables.
Experiment with form.
Endeavor to fail spectacularly.
Seek critiques full of harsh truth…
But for love of all things holy,
STOP. PUBLISHING. TOO. SOON.
Live alone with your work,
until you come to hate it,
then ask other people, if they hate it too.
This is what poets do.