Poetry has no rules, it has been said.
I say, rules exist. They lie
in how poetry should be read.
For instance, one cannot
read Octavio Paz
without first pausing
to sink into a faded velvet chair
of some bookstore
now out of mode and forgotten
And when
one reads the words of Billy
Collins it can only be
at a kitchen table
after dark
by the light of a single flame.
Shakespeare’s for the school halls, read
by one who thinks he knows
and Dickinson’s for the garden
with a single yellow rose.
Frenzied prose is for the birds,
scattered in the mist of ancient cobblestone
a panicked pandemonium set off
by the toss of a head
or sleight of hand.
But the poem, in all its outdated ink
remains unruffled
and to think
you nearly passed it by.
“and to think…you nearly passed it by”
but something caught your eye
turned your head, for a just a moment
the shout of a word, a singing phrase.
Poetry can be mesmerizing, I say, a world untouched.
I love it my friend!
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