There is one question I will be answering for the rest of my life. What’s a poem?
I don’t know…
This one’s a poem, I think. If I say it is then it is. Or at least that is the contemporary consensus. And of course who can argue with a poet in a time so free and open to art.
This is a poem because I say it is, but also because it reads like a poem, because it deals with poetic imagery and delves into a deeper meaning in a few lines. Prose do that to, but in prose there would potentially be more, a different tone, or just plain more to work with.
In the end the lines are blurry so enjoy the freedom poets.
Write what you feel. Let the openness of poetry be your gateway. Experiment. Enjoy. That’s all I have to say about this one. I’m not too enamoured with the revised version so there will be more critique on this one certainly.
Poem 69 Revised – Poem 69 Original
Canaries in the coal mines collect among them the illusion of soot. They fret the candle. They fear the lamp; they watch match-side for the flicker of tightly wound impulse: applauding the hillside to crumbs. Canaries in the coal mine, were they to look upon the afternoon would think quite seriously that the sun had landed beside them, a canary himself and burned their memories away. I cannot decide how to catch their wings on fire. Canaries in the coal mine have no place around the branch barbs or the street cars, they would ponder too viscerally towards the trash cans and mini-vans. Oh! the churning gurgling of their sooted gullets, I won’t trouble you to sing to me, in your rusty hinging cage. Not for this one. Or any others, dear canary in the coal mine. For a moment I still believed you were a bird.
Poem 69 Revised – Poem 69 Edited