Poetic License

Poetic license, a great body implanted.

Yes, poetry readers of the world granted

Each licentiate broad range of latitude:

Pen words of emotion: anger, gratitude, …

Make up words that sound just right,

Bend meaning if somewhat slight,

Butt word images hard to each other,

With normal conjunctions never bother.

But readers’ demands are conscientious:

They distinguish license from licentious.

Some basic form they ask to communicate

Discrete thoughts and images discriminate.

‘Tis one thing, if we invent phrase or word,

So a melodic, rhythmic tune be heard,

Yet another to misspell or language ill-form,

From carelessness or ignorance borne,

Or cover slothfulness by obscure word play

That confuses and leads our patron away

From the poetic goal of transitioning norms:

Exceptional ideas, harmonies, and forms.

We love our relatives — well-wishers,

Forgivers — for substance, diligent fishers,

But when publishing to broader community,

All works compete, and none gets immunity.

Thousands of poems scream for attention,

Only one best, no honorable mention.

This arena, form counts, readers are tough,

And substantively best, not good enough.

Literary critics do not find their voice

In corporeal whipping, curtailing choice.

But deliver vicious cuts non-derisively,

Damn with faint praise, ignore incisively.

So, the competitive poet’s creative intent

Is error free writ to consciously invent

Thrilling substance that catches the eye,

Good form, a nonpareil linguistic ply.

And poetic license, among other tools,

Is judgment applied — within the rules.