POETRY IS WILD NONSENSE
And with the help of the poet it reaches a form of intellectual intensity. The poet attacks the irrational then in his own writing, yet still loves poetry more than prose. In other words he dislikes poetry and prose equally.
I can't find Shakespeare around to get his opinion. We all know he did not change his ways too much in his plays. That might have felt a bit dull, and the early masters he loved were poets, especially Ovid. To verse or not to verse?
Being a journalist helps me be a better poet.
Most poets tend to go very inwards for inspiration. That was true for Blake, Rosseti, Dickinson as early examples. Blake wrote a piece on experience ironically. Many other poets do seem removed from the "Real" world around them. Virgil was in Roman culture, but was likely way more involved in his writing to give much attention to the life around him. No doubt Walt Whitman was also such a writer. This is perhaps the kind of thing that attracted the Academy in the first place.
Here comes the love
Oh no
Everyone run
The sky is falling
A cloud full of doves
Good signs of things to come
Here comes the kindness
Run for cover
Here it comes
Loves awareness is flowing
Even your drink is getting sweet
This is not a trick
Now join the feast!
Bees
To locate is challenging
In pitch darkness on slippery leaves
All know as an impossible dream
Yet as important as good broth
For to heal from the sting
That smarts the brains with lightening
Into the blood system strange love
Like eating this evening is not my idea you thunder people
Demigods wailing in flower beds
Where the bee had died
And stung my head
While the music was forgetful
As the forget me nots were
Which bees wax dripped upon
The honey in the magic song
Oozing into reality
Winter covered them
But the lit up like Christmas lights
With perfect whiskey
For the coming dreams
Where I was breathing under the sea
Amongst the atoms of life
And phosphorescent blue coral
Waxing deliciously.
Can you blame me
I like confetti
Love things like people
Who seem like things
So I don't get cynical
Seems like a true sin
To imagine a bunch of felons
Just for a tea party
People go mad and seek revenge.
So when the wheat fields rise
And sweet eyes full of love are here
Bored no more
The soul is light
And joy gets in during the night
For it begins with me
Making it happen
Day by day
White magic comes.
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