inconsequential meditations

on the definition of poetry

Ross E. Lockhart

A poet’s words should be
alive, beneath the skin,
awake, but always dreaming,
aware, each nerve electric.
For anything else would be untrue.

Catullus said it best:

“Odi et amo: quare id faciam, fortasse requiris.
Nescio, set fieri sentio et excrucior.”

and maybe he was full of shit, but still,
Rome scattered roses in his path, fell at his feet,
and kissed him full on the mouth.

II.

A poet’s words should be
the very soul of madness,
the carnal taste of venom,
the all-consuming sacred fire.
For anything else would be untrue.

Rimbaud said it best:

“Le Poëta se faint voyant par un long, immense et raisonné dérèglement de tous les sens. Toutes les formes d’amour, de soffrance, de folie; il cherche lui-même, il epuise en lui tous les poisons, pour n’en garder que les quintessences.”

and maybe he was full of shit, but still,
Paris embraced him, touched him, penetrated his skin,
and grew within him, a pregnant mindless dream.

III.

A poet’s words should be
mere moments in a snapshot,
naked gospel pure,
solid, substantial, tangible.
For anything else would be untrue.

Bukowski said it best:

“it’s the space, I said,
all that space between
poems and stories, it’s
intolerable.”

and maybe he was full of shit, but still,
L.A. loved him as it gnawed at him, devoured him,
and crapped him out again.

IV.

A poet’s words should be.
For anything else would be untrue.