Ah, the crafty poet’s recipe:

Three memories, a sensuously descriptive phrase
overheard.  Snippets you catch from the radio,
someone babbling, gestures, junk, movement, detritus,
the Psychedelic Anarchy you try to find,

For the Poem Manufactory: get a big pot,
throw this stuff in, turn the grinder crank
until words come out, and get stuffed
into stanza skins, something’s gut.

Poetry is thus an edible sausage you can eat,
to be uplifted, and when fed, feel complete.

One thought on “Ah, the crafty poet’s recipe:”

  1. Do you remember the email I forwarded to you about the organization Mass Poetry? Honestly, Kent, I think they would use this poem to communicate what poetry contributes to the lives of millions of people, and those numbers are grow because of that organization. They think the way you do.

    Now, my friend, I hope you see that I am giving you what you asked for, and I will continue doing it with the same “razor” I use when I revise my own work. We are the same. But now, i have to use that razor and complete the final draft of my book. I hope to send out a query letter to a New York literary agent by the end of next week. But I’ll be back soon.

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