46 Poem by RIC BASTASA

she, too, dislikes it, because it gives her the feeling as though
her head is taken off, makes her body cold so no fire can ever
warm her again. One does not look on poetry as a closed work, the poems go on and on
at all times on one’s head, and snip off a length.

You mush remember the homely definition,
Poetry is the best words in their best order, words in their nth power.

Bony ideas, bloody nerves, held together by the delicate
Tough skin of words…

Words…words...

I agree, I have never started a poem where I know the ending
Always the ending is unpredictable.
Poetry is your personal
Expression making it public, a revelation, a revolution of sort, you throw a pebble to the world.

In essence, poetry is an emotion, said, written in measured motion,
And that motion is an art.

Drip pity, drip pity, drip drip drip drip

Like a dripping rain, from a leaking roof, while one sleeps
To its rhythm.

A wording of highest thoughts, appearing as a
Remembrance, it does not really mean anything, it is simply magical…

But be.

You make a poem, but the reader recognizes it as his own,
But there is no accusation of thievery or plagiarism

A sea animal, evacuating to land, and now wanting to fly in the sky, that is poetry.

Making familiar things rare, as though they are
Not familiar anymore.

Giving habitation to airy nothing.
Giving nothing to everything.

Giving a nobody a nice home like he is now a somebody.
The invisible, made visible, and the visible made invisible.

A quarrel within himself.
In his tranquility, he recollects powerful feelings, and give in
To an spontaneous flow of giving.

That is poetry. Giving, and always giving, no taking, nothing taken.

I, too, dislike it at first.