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Just as a male Adelie penguin must select exactly the right pebble for his beloved – the size, shape, colour and weight that will convince her of his worthiness, so must you select the poem that is exactly right for you. It may take a lifetime of effort, but oh! think of the joy it will bring!
Photo credit: es0teric/Creative Commons
(OK, this pebble business is something of a myth, although pebbles are definitely prized at nesting time. For the whole scandalous sex-for-pebbles exposé, read this.)
Poems live and breathe. They can be picked up and held – sometimes at your peril. A poem may walk agreeably alongside you or may pounce from behind a fountain. It may crawl inside your ear while you’re daydreaming and burrow into your brain.
Each poem is an individually choreographed collection of words that skip, slide and kick across the page/ether/airwaves in their own peculiar way. Poems that follow form are waltzes and foxtrots; free-ranging poems are hippies at festivals, eyes closed, moving to their own beats and rhythms.
Every poem is a furball. Strands of ideas, images, emotions and thoughts build up in the gut over time until they are sufficient to form a ball. This must be expelled; you will feel better for it. You will not be able to cough up your furball until it’s good and ready, but you can encourage it along with judicious applications of cod liver oil (or substitute other preferred liquid) and a tickle under the chin.
May it be all you could wish for.
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