Friday, 15 April 2011

Letter to Joseph


Numerous discern not double-meanings.
Poetry is confident responses
Computer programs can muddle around for twenty years!

Any good poem should give something to the hungry child
Time poses as a season-word.
All quibblers that the enchanter has not put to sleep
produce a Japanese verse form I sense is ill-fated.
A worthy poem should make cowards
of the establishment of ignorance.

Feedback of the original that kisses her literary endeavours.
becomes a declaration of solidarity with the leading question.
Personally I find the essential sentence construction pigswill
-- poems that make a misery of slumber.
I could share the law's delay,
a long time if they were comfortably settled

Turning to your letter of adversities,
blue scyllas are somewhat appalling in an ocean of poetry.
Various scrawlers execute biting remarks.
I haven't got the rules concerning
the use of reason to scrutinise a star.
I'm pleased to enhance publicity -
Joseph you did ask for a reply
toward a passionless girl who willing gives herself
It is a stance of creation that I write most of the enterprise.

I went through a cupboardful of humility. and devised
a place of importance for the fair Ophelia,
so the warm summer looks like the latest that kissed her flesh.
The tyrant is corrupt, while others be fond of arrogance;
of the thousand customary quakes.
I went to entice the fair Ophelia to intimate consummation,
Now it is time to sleep.

Fairstead's a barely significant place but I need to rest to record.
Compare the mind of the Norwich housewife,
with the cold woman who can manipulate material across sperm.
I'm not smelling Sunlight is for balance.
Today I don't take arms against a mass of masochist constructs
in the twilight by drifting snow.
Knowing why blanched honest voluptuousness
is sicklied o'er with late sixties pretensiousness,
all writers find themselves perplexed when I use
very few warnings and the fetish object of the day.

Poetic forms are twisted;
only poets can mix together several portions of naivete.
Poetry is imagining a clear perspective;
contempt of the lilac; not the nuances of vast essences;
the whips and posters; a lovesong on a memoir.
Fresh ideas and the client gets filled in the Smoke.
Flesh is the sunken bridge his quietus makes.
Many writers find the hearth-rug, in meaningful ways;
but elsewhere that weather-wise virgin
has the more fashionable hairstyle and scorns ignorance.

Stooping beneath oaken beams is an assertion of modesty.
Departing as brusquely or crudely as he kissed her,
his wife says I've been researching with a bare bodkin.
The yellow crocuses made sterile by restitution
abandon the useful bits.
Death's flower opens in the case of art forms
no less important than the rush to expose his body.

No newsreel screams with detail.
Yielding the undiscovered state,
he uses different language-forms to the giant albatross
or the insolence of the hungry child.
Discuss the manufacture of power, not exploiting place-names.
Any literature off this is stimulating and fossilises twilight.

Turning to your comment on the door --
try to emphasise giving up to include a label and a moment.
It was fun seeking to understand the ladies' hockey team!
Dear Joseph, in the bedroom
the contention is information.
The pangs of the heron are ultimately the requirement to take arms.
Haikuists live only for the moment.


Composed: Gee Cross, 4th May 1993


2000 MIR (USA)

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