(My tribute to Ars Poetica by Archibald Macleish which made me sit up and notice a poem)
A poem is a globed fruit
palpable yet mute
Can borrow a few words
How cute!
Honest yet not straightforward
need not be attached to any rhyme scheme
Just needed to externalise the inner scream
of a once ignored teenager
Just open the floodgates
A spontaneous overflow of my repressed emotions
An abstract art of mythical proportions
makes the melancholy of a monotone
sound rich like a broadway baritone.
A poem need not be
A masterpiece , a marvel
An idea so novel
that there are odes written to it.
It can simply be
A moment in time crystallised with words
A gasp of the gut
So well put
that you thought someone put their hand down your throat
and pulled it out
like a rabbit from
a hat
or a hole
A poem is a sieve
which separates the chaff from the grain
A pensieve
and a penmanship on pain.
( In response to What's going on? Blog's Poetry is prompt)
