In this Age of Truncation, poetry should strive for the lonely promontory; stake out the oblique leisurely stroll, the unhurried voice of truth to power before being led away in hand-cuffs. Let the Gestapo goons beat their heads against the wall struggling to put into words the precise nature of the poet’s offense. His crimes should be impossible to explicate on a writ or a summons. To all real poets out there, I say: Your inscrutability is a birthright. Follow your destiny. Take the long way home
When I grow up and become an adult maybe I shall write out some sort of Code for Poetry and other Spellcastings, lest I forget. This would make a great section 3.11
Nice piece.
Thanks,
A
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