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 Replies to “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. Perhaps no one but a poet can truly understand poetry, poets. We have so much to give. Yet we seem to be the least appreciated of the creatives. Thankfully we have each other.

  3. 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 😉
    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.

  4. 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.

  5. 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..:)

  6. 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! 🙂 <3

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