by Seth Abramson
This is a world where there are poets
There are poets everywhere, neo-formalists and conceptualists
There are poets on Twitter, there are poets in my bed.
There is one poet. She is my little one.
I talk to my little poet.
I give my little poet some Stevia but that does not satisfy her.
I tell her, ssh ssh, don’t growl little poet!
And she growls, oh boy does she growl!
And she wants something from me,
She wants my soul.
And finally giving in, I give her my gleaming soul
And as she eats my gleaming soul, I am one with her
And stare out her eyepits [sic] and I see nothing but white
And then I see nothing but fog and the white I had seen before was nothing
And there is nothing but fog out the eyes of poets
When I was six or seven, I skinned my knee. It’s an experience that’s never really left me. This is a poem about that. And the magic of poetry. It’s called “Ars Poetica,” which means “small gift” in Latin. This poem owes a significant debt to Dottie Lasky and also to the magic of poetry.