hard ass poet
Posted: October 5th, 2014, 1:12 am
The poet is a hard ass
not some street tough
but in the streets of the page
I might appear as a mild mannered bookworm
I might look bookish on the face of it
I move through crowds invisible, tricky
I move through crowds words with circumspection
I read them with respect, even if I don't believe
I did not learn this comprehension by speed reading
I learned it by hanging out in libraries when days were dark
by reading with slow steady sure footed steps through
passages that wound up treacherous phrases of phantom art
left by those who trudged through the mud of memory apart
very early on I began to see that reading what was printed
was an art all its own, to read with an open mind, meant
to keep the mind open but not so open that you just accepted
everything at face value, that words had minds of their own
and no matter who used them, and made them mark the space
that is all they really were, a holder of a certain place
for the time being, until another writer came along
and took up the space between the meanings of the words set down
and in such a way, the movement of the meanings was ever shifting
yet, still allowed for some kind of recognition of purpose of position
the poet must be a shatterer of illusions, without any remorse
must be an assassin of expressions that pretend to be carved in stone
not some street tough
but in the streets of the page
I might appear as a mild mannered bookworm
I might look bookish on the face of it
I move through crowds invisible, tricky
I move through crowds words with circumspection
I read them with respect, even if I don't believe
I did not learn this comprehension by speed reading
I learned it by hanging out in libraries when days were dark
by reading with slow steady sure footed steps through
passages that wound up treacherous phrases of phantom art
left by those who trudged through the mud of memory apart
very early on I began to see that reading what was printed
was an art all its own, to read with an open mind, meant
to keep the mind open but not so open that you just accepted
everything at face value, that words had minds of their own
and no matter who used them, and made them mark the space
that is all they really were, a holder of a certain place
for the time being, until another writer came along
and took up the space between the meanings of the words set down
and in such a way, the movement of the meanings was ever shifting
yet, still allowed for some kind of recognition of purpose of position
the poet must be a shatterer of illusions, without any remorse
must be an assassin of expressions that pretend to be carved in stone