Never trust a poet.
They have, of course, a total
Disregard for punctuation; among
Other things.
Never love a poet.
They root their words like a crooked spine.
And their secrets—
A set of Chinese boxes,
Falling and folding into something larger, or smaller,
Depending on how they look at it.
Never open the box of a poet.
Some contain fiction.
Some contain truth.
Some contain them.
Some contain her.
All contain you.
4 comments:
This poem is a heap of fun for me, and romantic too. The last stanza remind me of Picasso's saying that Praitis used to always reinforce in her poetry classes: "Art is the lie that tells the truth." If I can call myself a poet, then I delight in this poem and find it utterly flattering.
Also, if we continue to find poems of similar themes at this rate, I wonder if you all wouldn't mind if I collected them into a digital book. Nothing official of commercial: just a memento for us. I'll send everyone a sample of what I have in mind.
I like how the first stanza is overly punctuated which gives a funny irony to what's being stated. The Chinese boxes metaphor is brilliant and reminds me of something similar I read about Russian dolls. Great stuff!
On a personal note, I'm touched that you remembered my story from Bonca's class. That's quite a compliment. Thank you.
The first stanza is so awesome. I think that this is an axiom that should be taught in schools.
I just love this. I am completely in awe/speechless.
Absolutely beautiful poem, Brandi!
I am inspired.
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