Happy Poetry Friday! I went to a poetry workshop last week on Ars Poetica at the Poetry Foundation. I think this is the first of many Ars Poetica poems that I may write.
ARS POETICA #1
Words crawl out from nowhere or somewhere
images begin to form or not–
Voice vacillates seeking its venue,
Voice returns self-assured or questioning,
as if a mountain could speak–what if it can?
What would it say …
“Follow your passion–” Listen to that mountain speak–
Listen to Nature–Mother Nature,
and Poetry, ask them questions
then listen with your mouth
speak with your ears
paint words whatever way you can
on whatever you can find
music moves cultures
paper-thin-poetry can move cultural barriers
Come–Now–Voice, no Boomeranging
Sing–sweet as a child’s piercing cry
Move–sure as tsunami’s destructive path
Carry–silent as a thunderstorm
Resound–willful as a fighter’s last breath
ensure monarch’s next flight
a small wing of humanity
© 2018 Michelle Kogan
You can read more about Ars Poetica here. I also found a few other Ars Poetica poems to share.
By James Galvin
Let us begin with a simple line,
Drawn as a child would draw it,
To indicate the horizon,
More real than the real horizon,
Which is less than line,
Which is visible abstraction, a ratio.
The line ravishes the page with implications
Of white earth, white sky!
The horizon moves as we move,
Making us feel central.
But the horizon is an empty shell—
Read the rest of the poem here.
WHAT HE THOUGHT
By Heather McHugh
For Fabbio Doplicher
We were supposed to do a job in Italy
and, full of our feeling for
ourselves (our sense of being
Poets from America) we went
from Rome to Fano, met
the Mayor, mulled a couple
matters over. The Italian literati seemed
bewildered by the language of America: they asked us
what does “flat drink” mean? and the mysterious
“cheap date” (no explanation lessened
this one’s mystery). Among Italian writers we
could recognize our counterparts: the academic,
the apologist, the arrogant, the amorous,
the brazen and the glib. And there was one
administrator (The Conservative), in suit
of regulation gray, who like a good tour guide
with measured pace and uninflected tone
narrated sights and histories
the hired van hauled us past.
Of all he was most politic–
and least poetic– so
it seemed. Our last
few days in Rome
I found a book of poems this
unprepossessing one had written: it was there
in the pensione room (a room he’d recommended)
where it must have been abandoned by
the German visitor (was there a bus of them?) to whom
he had inscribed and dated it a month before. I couldn’t
read Italian either, so I put the book
back in the wardrobe’s dark. We last Americans
were due to leave
tomorrow. For our parting evening then
our host chose something in a family restaurant,
and there we sat and chatted, sat and chewed, till,
sensible it was our last big chance to be Poetic, make
our mark, one of us asked
Is it the fruits and vegetables
and marketplace at Campo dei Fiori
Read the rest of her poem here.
by Rita Dove
Thirty miles to the only decent restaurant
was nothing, a blink
in the long dull stare of Wyoming.
Halfway there the unknown but terribly
important essayist yelled Stop!
I wanna be in this;
and walked fifteen yards onto the land
before sky bore down and he came running,
crying Jesus–there’s nothing out there!
Read the rest of her poem here.
Rebecca Herzog at her blog Sloth Reads is hosting this weeks Poetry Friday Roundup, thanks Rebecca! Be sure to stop by her blog for more poetry!