Wow, that was quite a poem day yesterday! Heck FIRE. I do hereby declare the 24-hour time period between 1:57 AM October 1st and 1:57 AM October 2nd to be my best poem day ever!
Go take a look, over on my original poetry blog, A Pocketful Of Poesy.
That's a six-poem day, and not a bad one in the batch! I think that's the best performance I've turned in yet. And those are brand new poems as well! Well wait, except for the one not titled, the pithy one re: marriage and sex, divorce and death.
"Bitter as pith," I was going to call it, but it seemed like editorializing - and on a poem that short, to call it "Untitled" just seems like putting on airs.
All of those others are brand new!
Oh, I should remark, there are several days in there, two or three days, that are 11 poem days, or 23 poem days, or THIRTY POEM DAYS (for example, I mean - those are not the accurate numbers). It is probably obvious that those were just big ol' poem dumps of classic, earlier material that I'd originally done and put someplace else. A Pocketful Of Poesy is conceived as the primary archive, storehouse, and showcase of my non-song-lyrical poetic efforts, so I needed to get those in there - quality be damned! Where I had a decent handle on the original composition date, I used that. For the ones where I didn't, I just batched them in where they landed - the post date.
I swear, I don't understand why the wide world at large seems to have given up on poetry. It's a rich form of art, right up there with synchronized eye ballet, or interpretive eating. I mean, painting is every bit as supposedly obsolete as poetry, yet plenty of people are doing "Painting A Day" blogs, and turning in fine work!
I thought for about a second I should rebrand/repurpose A Pocketful Of Poesy as a "Poem A Day" blog, but you know what, that's too regimented for me. Some days I put six on there, some weeks none. It averages out. I could still bill it as a "Poem A Day On Average" blog, if the numbers end up bearing that out over a given 365 day period! But I would take something like that seriously, though, so. Probably not going to happen.
But anyway, none of that explains why the world at large isn't foaming restlessly at the mouth with a cavernous and insatiable craving for great poety, as was true in times of golden yore, when poets were celebrated as much for their mighty works as for their good looks and sex appeal. Whither the grandeur? Whence did it wither? Why this mean, shrinking diminishment? It's not like words mean less than they used to. You can still pack a punch!
You just have to know when to pepper with jabs, and when to go in with the haymaker. Yesterday, form me, was like, a showstopper of a fluid six-punch combination, closing with a hard overhand right.
Take a bow, worthy opponent. Exit: stage down.