! ' Sorry, But What You Write Isn'T Poetry...'

A deep breath; a sigh.. as if
you didn’t accuse yourself of this
every time you write a poem and
hoping to pretend it’s ‘ stretching

by Michael Shepherd Click to read full poem

Comments (13)

What a great poem.
My sister is horrible
This way for poems that way for junk, you must have been born with poetry it's self Michael, thanks for the signpost to sanity.
Yor are so right in describing the attempt to write. My 'Like Shooting Stars' started out as a seemingly small explosion yesterday. Somewhere between the dust from that settling and being half-awake this morning trying to get everything run by clocks in my house to fall back an hour for Pacific Daylight Time, shooting stars popped into my head. Yep. that's how it happens; for better or worse.
Michael - this whole process of stripping oneself naked and standing in full view of the world really can only best be understood by those who are persuaded by some out-of-the-blue power to put pen tp paper. This is exquisite, I like it very much. Thank you Bob
Oh, yes..those blessed 'out of the blues - - ' Where would I be without that errant breeze blowing through my mind, and leaving a fresh breath for me to breathe? I would be lost with all those words floating about in my head and nowhere to put them....Thanks, Michael!
Michael this poem beautifully describes the child/parent relationship of poem (good or bad) and poet (however learned) that only those who've given poetic birth can understand. You share with great clarity the anxiety and excitement that accompanies this process which seems to have an unstoppable life of its own. Stunning piece. love, Allie xxxx
The only words i can add to this are A-f***ing-men. Tho i guess the hyphens make it all one word.
I love it, I relate to it, I know where it's coming from and where it's going, finally someone understands me. Thankyou very much Michael.--Melvina--
I know, I know.....but.... I sometimes accumuate all these extra words, nervous and stacked up, in my little cramped brain, crashing into one another, and every now and again, when I turn my head sideways, they roll out of my ear like little alphabet-filled railroad boxcars, onto a coffee stained paper I've written my grocery list and/or maybe the name of a certain guy I met who didn't call and that, that is why I have drawn a picture of him next to his name with the many little knives sticking out of his skull, but anyway, and out of boredom I reckon, I roll them (the alphabet-filled boxcars) around a little and stack them up into a tall multi-tiered wordcake, a monstercake with gooey frosting that makes little or no sense at all to likely anyone but me, and at that very moment, VOILA, that is when I know I have finished and simply must post my 'masterpiece' for others to read in agonizing astonishment....but I am good natured and only do so in fun, and with the best of intentions. But...I will try harder, no matter what the cost. Onward troops, we have words to do, mountains to scale! P.S. Um, err, you were talkin' to me, right?
i'll try to do better next time. p.s. there's whole lot of poemhunters, who may not appreciate you tellin' them, their poems ain't no good. (lol)
Fan-freakin'-tastic, Michael. I agree. Some are so hell bent on technique that they never say anything of any enduring value. It's a spark in the metaphor of the heart, the mind, the soul - and for true poets, it must be expressed, no matter how it is received. This is a stellar expose' of the current and tiresome debate: what is a poem?
What you say is true one way, for each one follows his own rules of poetry. Tastes differ. Opinions differ. No two agree.