Critical Point Poem by Daniel Y.

Critical Point



My memories carved into.
Cutting at my open heart.
Triple bypass with a cleaver.
Performing surgery on my novel,
How the critic is so eager!
It's how he gets his sustenance- the predator!
Pliers on my iron lung.
Picking out poems like weeds.
My field of watered flowers.
The word-butcher.
He words me, girls.
They are empty vases, beautifully
painted with dust from a forgotten attic.
Should I let words ruin my joy and my love?
No. My own words are more important to me,
because they are mine.
And they have no words to describe them.

Wednesday, July 2, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: writing
COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Daniel Brick 25 July 2014

That's a sweet, clever irony in the last lines. The way I see it - for every poet words begin as community property and most will stay that way. But if the poet doesn't claim some of them for himself and transform to fit the unique circumstances of his latest poem, they will be inert and the poem unrealized. So, dear poet, feel free to purloin some of the best words and use them better than anyone else. Don't worry about them - they'll find their way back home to dictionaries, textbooks, newspapers, small talk, popular novels - but their greatest adventure will always be when they were placed in your poem and achieved their fullest being. No wonder th 1ere are no words for your words!

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