Neither in pools of snowmelt,
nor in schools of orderly ideas,
do poems collect;you’ll find
them on the free range of the
imagination, where hell is a corral,
and you’re a feisty mustang’s rider.
Dave Read
Ars poetica
Our M.O.
Poems start as inklings
on the perpetual scrolls
of poets’ consciousness.
Restless souls, poets’ impatience
with the status quo ignites the
inklings and makes the poems.
Dave Read
Whimsy whispers
Whimsy whispers to poets and musicians, the way
Anatomy lectures painters and sculptors, and
Gravity tells dancers and architects what can be done.
Dave Read
Tyranny v. Liberty
With lariats of laurels, tyranny
herds the clever and curious into
corrals of mirrors, shielded there
from what awaits the unclever, uncurious
outsiders left to bang on windows.
Dave Read
Nature’s trombone
All schoolhouse poets, and their tutors,
toot with brand name flutes –
While in the wild, and alone,
the poet plays nature’s trombone.
Dave Read
Deconstruction is cultural grave-robbery.
It finds favor among people who have found a way to make a living off what artists produce, without producing art of their own.
I would define literature broadly enough for criticism to have a room of its own. Somehow, however, there needs to be a kill-switch, activated once the ratio of brilliant literature to expert literary criticism falls below a million to one.
Now that the whole genre of poetry in the United States is under assault by trustees of a quarter-billion BigPharma dollars, thus all-in on deconstruction, I cannot wait until they have a go at deconstructing the Blues. Sweet Jesus, what a joyful noise that’s gonna make!
Dave Read