Apparently I’m on a poetry kick. There is poetry clawing at the inside of my skull, or pecking, hoping to crack me open so it can escape. But I gird myself with reminisces and meta.
This is by Billy Collins, one of my favorite poets.
Introduction to Poetry
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means