don’t call it poetry
A poem about how poetry appears on the screen, sounds aloud and survives creative-writing rules. It pokes fun at form, technique and the teaching of poetry.
how does it look
on the screen?
how does it sound
when spoken?
is it painting
images
or just philosophical
rambling?
does it contain
the doing words?
does it show
not tell?
is it haiku
or quantrain
or has no form
at all?
he said
creative writing
beats the hell
out of creativity
teaching people
how to write…
i prefer
Ezra Pound
he spurted
to students bemused
sitting down
in the theatre
about to absorb
a lecture
on
publishing rights.
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