Indeed, John. Here are a few lines on the subject from a rather pretentious glosa I wrote. It is of some concern to me that the poet publishing a "true" (by Jim's definition) "found" poem should acknowledge the lostness of the words and the luck of the foundness.
Found poems are a labour-saving caper
(Best to ignore the fact that someone lost them).
A painless, mindless way of filling paper.
Old boundaries collapse after you’ve crossed them.
The laundry list, the memo, the prescription;
It’s written – rip it off and put it in!
The condom packet and the job description…
Art is a buffet lunch - sod discipline;
Love bids you welcome. Blunder through and grab
What turns you on. But pick up your own tab.
(The [last half of the] last line was, of course, determined by the cabeza, but I was delighted by the way it underlined my point and chose to overlook the fact that the glosa is, itself, one of the earliest instances of "found poetry". Innit.)
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