"My god!" she thought, going slightly cross-eyed,
the Glossary of Poetic Terms she'd printed off
was eightynine pages. She'd had to staple them
in clumps; Abcerdarian Poem to Cyclic,
Macaronic Verse to Paronomasia,
Dactyl to Free Verse, which enjambed,
infringing on Galliambus' iambic dipodies.
Ancient beginnings, dynamic changings, new evolvings.
Fluid noncomformity versus classic lyrical meter.

She'd read through it twice, marveled
at shadowed words of dead poet's works
illustrating any-man, all men, some men.
One day, she would be a dead poet. Ah, death.
Yes! A subject of renown and mystery.
So many candences, tones, so many echoes
in death. We live in death, we are mortal.

Fear? Certainly! It is our birthright,
to fear continually, to yearn for the truth
beyond our fragmented awareness.
There are eclipsing views within our souls.
Wants, needs, goals, bleeds;
the cycled circle obliques our angles,
adventitious struggles confound sentience.

The language of emotions formed itself,
artistic genesis rearranges preconceptions,
allows some absolutions easement
while beatifically flogging others.
Poetry is an enveloping drug, as are sunsets,
love, dreams and selfishness.
Gratifying base needs of self-importance
and promoting a type of growth
that collapses any chance
of remaining unscathed by human frailities.

"My god..." she breathes,
pondering how to become one.

Companion piece:

I've done it, solidly yet hysterically
polluted my mind, or gifted it,
with worded poetic history, it's blistering,
and stifling, inspiring and pressuring,
it is knowledge 'of its own sort',
purely subjective.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 2/10/04