Poetry has landed in my life. There it is.
In my Inbox. Starring back. Signature at the bottom.
More than 20 years ago, someone told me, poetry is for people who can’t write prose. Clearly that person has never received a poem written just for him. The effect is stunning on the receiving end.
Let’s say, I’m describing what happened between friends, I could write a poem to the friend:
Odd, in her lair/Single in line/Should he say what he means/or knock on time?
Air is binding/honeysuckle to fall/over the still water/Kayaks fall
The mariner’s way/wound the beachhead/over the shimmering water at the Baltimore’s clan
An invitation may come/but another awaits/be my heart at the count
The worst of this is now my emails are infected with this enthusiasm for strange punctuations, mis-spellings, cut off thoughts. Nothing makes sense (but does it matter?)…
Everything seems ripe for poetry all of the sudden. Going to buy a watermelon. Poetic. Sleeping at the office. Poetic. Replacing a roll of toilet paper. Poetic.